


When You Return

by kayisdreaming



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, M/M, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), lots of pining, mentions of other blue lions - Freeform, minor references to canon-typical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:00:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29523315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayisdreaming/pseuds/kayisdreaming
Summary: After the war, Sylvain perhaps never thought things would be easy, but he at least expected them to be simple. That all comes to a halt when he gets badly hurt after a conflict with Srengi extremists, leaving him confined to bedrest. Miserable, he resigns himself to being stuck with his own thoughts, memories, and dreams—particularly ones regarding a certain king that he was never able to and still cannot quell his affection for.That, of course, all changes when he finds that some old friends have unexpectedly come to help take care of him. Confused by their presence—and bothered by the fact that the one person he really wants can never come—he finds he has to wrestle with his desires, his duty, and his love for his old friends.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 10
Kudos: 56





	When You Return

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Spec ](https://twitter.com/Spectralsoups) for making all the wonderful illustrations for this work! Links to the art on Twitter will be linked at the end of the work. Please be sure to give them a follow and share your support!  
> And thank you to the Dimivain BB for hosting this event!

Heavy breaths came out in puffs of steam, swirling in Sylvain’s face before disappearing completely. Rationally, he knew the bitter cold should have stung. He knew every breath should ache like needles in the skin, forcing his lungs to hold air till they begged for a momentary peace. In the same way, though, he knew that his body should have hurt far more than it did. Blood dripped deep into the snow beneath his feet; his body didn’t react like he needed it to. Even his grip around the Lance of Ruin was weak—even though he had to press all his weight against it just to stay upright.

His mind was still buzzing, thoughts slipping from his grasp the moment he touched them. Part of it was the blood loss, he knew, and part was from the adrenaline of a battle hard fought and barely won. He and his men weren’t completely safe, but what was left barely qualified as cleanup.

He exhaled softly, running a hand through his hair. The adrenaline would fade soon—already he could feel an ache at his side and the sting of cuts on his face—which meant he had to focus.

Sylvain’s gaze slid down to one of the many bodies before him. His men had shouted of a Srengi ambush, back when this had first begun. True, the uniforms were from Sreng in nature—hard winters required fur coats, and the pelts here were textured far differently than those back home—but they weren’t _of_ Sreng. Sylvain had studied too hard to mistake these colors for any of the Srengi warlords; even the lesser leaders were obsessed with staying close to their warlords’ colors and insignia.

If he had to guess, these men weren’t affiliated with the warlords. No, they were likely—

“Margrave!”

Sylvain’s head snapped at the sound, but it was too late. Flames licked up his arm, the searing heat too close to be ignored by adrenaline.

Hot, too hot. Meaning—

Sylvain spun around, his Lance swinging in a wide arc around him. He could feel the blade slice through the mage long before he could see them. He didn’t have to look to know they wouldn’t rise again.

Even if the magic died with them, the damage had been done. Pain radiated through Sylvain’s arm and up his shoulder, sharp and impossible to be ignored. This seemed to be the breaking point for his body—the ache in his side radiated into a pounding throb, reminding him of the blade that had slid through his armor. He could feel every heartbeat as it condemned him more, the metal of his platemail doing nothing to stymie the flow.

His breaths turned to gasps—shallow, pointless things as panic began to seep in. Already his body was trembling past his control. His knees buckled beneath him, heedless of the Lance meant to support him. The weapon tumbled into the snow with him, the dull pulsing of its Crest stone moving in time with the throbbing of his body.

But at least there was some mercy in the world. His vision was already fading, the edges dissolving to static. If he was dying, at least he wouldn’t be awake for it.

As he tumbled forward and his face pressed into the snow, Sylvain wondered if anyone would miss him.

If _he_ would miss him.

~☀~

Sylvain sighed, staring up at the ceiling. He’d become intimately familiar with it of late, confined indefinitely to his bed. By now, he could visualize the markings when he closed his eyes. It was a miracle he hadn’t yet seen the stone pattern in his dreams.

Not that it was _all_ he saw, but as of yet it had been the only thing of any real interest.

Technically, there were other things around that were supposed to be interesting. Technically, he should have cared about them more than he did. But there was something about nearly dying that seemed to sap anything enthralling from, well, everything.

For instance, he should have been intrigued by the pretty healers who came by to visit him three times a day to provide medicine, change his bandages, and occasionally ask how he felt. Of course, the last was more irritating than anything else; there was only so much that could change when he was stuck in bed with a badly burned arm, a deep laceration through his side, two broken ribs, a sprained ankle, and cuts on his face that hurt every time he tried to talk or smile. Though by the ninth day, he knew that they were equally tired of his stupid smile and the way he tried to deflect with empty flirts. At the end of each day, he kept hoping they’d get annoyed enough to give up and leave him to his fate—and thus far he’d been disappointed.

Then there were those of his council who were likely meant to be interesting. But he’d become bored of their tepid arguments regarding Sreng within twenty minutes. They tried to convince him that the ambush had been a declaration of war—but Sylvain wasn’t an idiot. It was obvious even before Sreng’s messenger arrived with the heads of who they regarded as ‘unagreeable children’—still adorned with scarves and headbands of the assailants’ colors. No, it was clear that the treaty was the right choice. Extremists only got this brash when they were losing.

After he explained as much, he was sure the council’s protestations were mere formality, and he just needed to get out of bed for their words to die completely. Or, he supposed, they were waiting for the chance he’d die so they could renew their war with Sreng. Until the treaty was completely formalized, he had little doubt the council would abandon it the moment his corpse was beneath the earth. As that was not yet the case, he still had to deal with their daily council.

Finally, and perhaps the most dreaded, were the visitations of the manor’s servants. It was always girls who came to his room to serve him—a rather unlikely occurrence considering more men than women served the Margrave. It was even less likely that they would all bat their lashes at him, giggle at his every word, and perform every other kind of nonsense that he lacked the patience for. He’d dismiss them entirely, if not for the fact that they were the only way he was being supplied any essentials outside of medical care.

This was a little unfair, he had to admit. Maybe it wasn’t that he didn’t want to see these people. Perhaps it was the fact that there was only _one_ person in the world he actually wanted to see.

Sylvain sighed, glancing at the table at his bedside. He had ignored the soup long enough that it was no longer steaming, the smell long since forgotten. But the medicine could not be so easily ignored. He had tried once, only for the pain to addle his mind so completely that he was terrified of it happening again.

The staff had scolded him for consuming one but not the other, but there was only so far that they could attempt to control the Margrave. And so long as he was cognizant enough to remain defiant, he would be.

With a slow inhale, he took the medicine in hand and brought it to his lips. The syrup there was sickeningly sweet to smell and something far beyond bitter on his tongue, but it did its job. Rapidly, pain eased out from his body until it could be little more than a bitter memory.

Sylvain slumped more into his pillows, sighing with soft relief.

Without the pain, it wasn’t hard to imagine the face he so desperately wanted to see. The golden bangs that framed the face, regardless of how the man tried to pull them back and tame them. The eye that shimmered bluer than the finest jewels in the world, all the more splendorous whenever it looked at Sylvain. His blonde lashes that brushed beautifully against his cheek when he laughed. The quirk on his lips, always settling somewhere between amusement and exasperation when directed at Sylvain. The way those broad shoulders seemed to soften whenever Sylvain was around, as if there was never any reason to have his defenses up with him.

If Dimitri was here, Sylvain was certain he’d be so distracted that he wouldn’t need medicine. He’d just have to look in that eye and all the ills in the world would be cured.

Though even _he_ had to admit that it was absurd, even beyond the obvious hyperbole.

After all, there was no way for Sylvain to leave his bed, and no logical reason for Dimitri to come to Gautier. There was no way he’d be inclined to do so when there was the matter of Fodlan still undergoing unification, Gautier still technically in conflict with Sreng, and a handful of other conflicts that had decided to show themselves the very second the war had been won. Even in general terms, a king wouldn’t travel to a snow-ridden border just because his vassal got careless.

_**‘** Perhaps when you return to Fhirdiad, we can talk’_

Sylvain’s fingers twitched at the voice, still as fresh in his mind as it had been the last time he had seen his king. _Oh_ , he wanted to see him so badly. Wanted to know what had made him look like that—equal parts confidence and uncertainty. He wanted that more than he wanted anything else, _especially_ now.

Of course, his body had other ideas. Already his eyelids were heavy, body being dragged to sleep by the sheer combination of medication and exhaustion.

Perhaps his dreams could grant him what reality would not.

~☾~

There was always something enlightening about getting slapped. Perhaps it had something to do with the sudden pain—that there was a direct correlation between cause and effect, and nothing even a little in question. Or, perhaps, it was because Dimitri had managed to flirt with a girl who had an arm so strong that Sylvain was pretty sure his brain was still rattling in his skull.

The enlightening thought this time was that the prince still pacing in Sylvain’s bedroom was woefully unprepared for anything remotely close to courting. No, ‘unprepared’ was kind. ‘Hopeless’ would perhaps be more accurate, if only a step before ‘catastrophically inept’.

It was actually surprising, if only for the fact that Dimitri had a trail of admirers behind him who would agree to date them immediately if he so much as smiled in their direction. Though _that_ was a slightly different problem.

Sylvain ran his thumb over his cheek, already hot enough to the touch in a way that he was sure would swell. However, as it wasn’t _yet_ too bad, he let an easy grin settle on his lips. “All handled, Your Highness.” He said, words perhaps a touch too cheery.

Dimitri paused in his pacing, expression still a bit dark. His lips curled into a rather severe frown. “I don’t believe I can ever repay you for this.”

“To be fair,” Sylvain said, running his tongue against his molars to check for loose teeth, “I was the one who suggested this. And sent you in woefully unprepared.”

To also be fair, he never expected Dimitri to take this seriously. It was the reason he had suggested it in the first place. It had been just as absurd—at least in his mind—for Dimitri to flirt with someone as it had been for Sylvain to stop his habits. That Dimitri had taken it seriously was equal parts adorable and terrifying.

Dimitri’s expression soured, no doubt insulted. He stepped toward the door, scowling at it like it had the gall to call him inexperienced. “Now that the matter is handled—”

“Whoa there,” Sylvain laughed, placing a hand on his prince’s shoulder, “ _that_ mess was handled. No sensible man would let you go out to start that again. Not without some proper pointers, at least.”

Dimitri gave him a withering look, bringing his hand up to remove Sylvain’s. “I have no plan to repeat this incident.” He said, fingers wrapping around Sylvain’s in a way that fortunately wasn’t yet painful. “I promised you I would try _once_ , and I have.”

“Look, Your Highness,” Sylvain said, keeping his smile amiable, “I’m not saying you have to do it _now_ , just, you know, when you wind up finding someone that catches your fancy.”

Dimitri blinked. His grip weakened, if only slightly. “I wasn’t aware you knew of such techniques.”

“First of all, ouch.” Sylvain shook his head, pulling his hand away and leaning against his door. He wasn’t ignorant to the fact that Dimitri could shove him away if he wanted. But at least he could count on decorum to make the prince hesitate before throwing him across the room. “Second, just because I don’t use them, doesn’t mean I don’t know them. You never know when you need them. And, trust me, _you_ need them.”

Dimitri visibly swallowed. “I don’t think it’s necessary.”

Sylvain hummed, tilting his head in a way perhaps too casual with his future king. But he figured he earned a bit of informality with a bruised jaw. “Even a king has to show someone he wants them.” He let his smile slide into something sly. “And if he wants to be wanted, too, even _he_ has to work for it.”

Sylvain didn’t miss the dusting of pink over Dimitri’s cheeks as the man looked away. He must’ve been close to hitting the nail on the head. But that was a topic that Sylvain neither wanted to pursue, nor thought he could without breaking bones.

Besides, the point was that a blush wasn’t a refusal.

“Humor me.” Sylvain said with a smile. “Show me what you did. Pretend I’m the girl you spoke to.”

Dimitri still didn’t look at him. “I’m not sure—”

“No judgment. Promise.” Sylvain brushed his bangs away from his face, trying his best to look as sincere as possible. “What happens in this room will stay in this room.”

Those blue eyes _finally_ met Sylvain’s, equal parts frustrated and flustered. His lips pressed together as if words were fighting to get out. From the way his eyebrows scrunched together and his gaze sharpened, Sylvain imagined not one of them was positive.

Sylvain rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, flirting is all about making someone feel good, right? So, for starters, just compliment me.”

Dimitri’s gauntlets creaked with the force of fists clenched far tighter than Sylvain wanted to imagine. Perhaps he was going too far—it was fine to tease people like Felix, or Annette, or even Ingrid, since they were like him. But teasing their prince bordered on insubordination, and—though Dimitri did want them to act as companions while they were here—perhaps this was one of those invisible lines Sylvain wasn’t meant to cross.

“You know what,” Sylvain sighed, “forget it. I—”

“Just a compliment?” Dimitri asked. He didn’t quite look angry, but this was no more than a few steps from that.

“Uh, yeah.”

Dimitri swallowed, glancing away again. “Your voice is quite soothing. Even when you’re—”

“Nope. Try again.”

Dimitri’s gaze snapped to Sylvain’s, confusion shattering through his annoyance. “Ah, well, your eyes then—”

“No, no, no.” Sylvain groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “The point is to make someone feel good. How good do you feel about something you can’t control?”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Look, you can’t just—hm.” Sylvain blinked, a horribly amazing thought coming to him. “It would be better to show you, I think.”

Dimitri’s voice was low in warning. “Sylvain. . .”

“Trust me, won’t you?” Sylvain bridged the gap between them. “Look, I could tell you that I love the way your hair shines like the sun,” he reached up, toying with the strands by Dimitri’s ear, “or how I’m more likely to get lost in your eyes than lost at sea.”

Sylvain hummed, enjoying the way the color in Dimitri’s face deepened. His mouth hung open like there was something he had to say, but Sylvain wasn’t going to give him the chance.

[Artist Source (Spec)](https://twitter.com/Spectralsoups)

“And that’s good and all, if you say it right. But I could also say,” Sylvain titled his head, letting his hand take Dimitri’s, “that I love nothing more than the way you stand out there on the battlefield, like all of us are as valuable as you. How easy you make it to believe that you would fight for any of us to the end. How you _care_ —and care so enthusiastically that it’s a wonder more people aren’t in awe of you.”

“Sylvain—” Dimitri’s mouth snapped shut, face redder than the Black Eagles’ banner.

“I’d say something like that. A compliment about something they can control—about the person they are.” Sylvain continued, only spurred on. Instinct drove more than sense—if his sense was still intact it would certainly be screaming for him to stop. “And, if you’re certain you have their attention, then . . .”

Sylvain bent in a half-bow, bringing Dimitri’s hand to his lips. The kiss there was soft and quick— no more than a peck, really.

Even if he had planned on more, he wasn’t given the chance. Dimitri snapped his hand away, reaching for the door like it was a lifeline. It was so quick that Sylvain couldn’t see the look on Dimitri’s face, couldn’t guess the effect it had. He could barely catch the ‘I think that’s enough of that’ before the door slammed so loudly that Sylvain was certain that the Goddess must have heard it.

Which left Sylvain there, standing in the middle of his room.

It was a shame, really. He knew the effect that move had on most girls—it had them practically eating out of his hand, willing to do anything to get another moment like that. Not that he did it very often—it was dangerous if used on the wrong person—but still. It would have been nice to see the effect it had on the prince.

And if that effect hadn’t been what he wanted, then he probably would have returned his attention to Dimitri’s hair, curling it around his fingers as he whispered more compliments. Kept his smile soft and sweet as Dimitri’s flush deepened, overwhelmed by praise. Admired the way Dimitri’s eyes seemed all the bluer when he was blushing. And, then—

Sylvain slapped himself in the face, his previous injury throbbing with the sudden attention. But it was good enough to snap him back to his senses.

Because he was _not_ thinking about _that_ with one of his oldest childhood friends.

[Artist Source (Spec)](https://twitter.com/Spectralsoups)

~☀~

Sylvain’s eyes shot open to the sharp slam of his door, the force certainly enough to shake the frame. With a groan, he rubbed his eyes, willing the pressure to bring the dream back. But already it was fading from his mind, as distant as the memory that war had eroded away.

“Just let me sleep in peace.” He grumbled. If they were finally impatient enough with his antics to be rude, then there was no reason for him to be polite.

“. . . Are you in pain?” The voice was soft, just on the edge of familiarity. Surely Sylvain would be able to place it, if not for the draining effects of the medicine.

Sylvain scrunched his eyes shut, trying to manage his temper. But the medicine had done a number on that, too. His fingers ran over the cuts on his face, the ache waking him more. “No, never better.” The sarcasm tasted bitter on his tongue. “Any excuse to avoid work. Next time I think I’ll break my arm.”

The person was quiet. Good. Maybe they’d leave him alone and—

—and that hope shattered as footsteps neared the bed. The wooden legs of the chair scraped against the floor, only slightly preceding the smell of the same stuff they had been trying to pawn off as food since he’d been stuck here.

He had no patience for company, and less patience for salty broth that tasted only like meat had been in the same room as it, and not a main ingredient of its preparation. “I’m still not in the mood.” He muttered.

“Eat it or I’ll shove it down your throat.”

Sylvain twitched, hand pulling down immediately from his face. He didn’t have to look to know; but he looked anyway.

There was Felix, fingers gripped tightly around a ceramic bowl full of the unappealing liquid. But that wasn’t really what Sylvain focused on—not now at least. No, he was more absorbed in the way Felix’s hair had grown so much since he’d last seen him, the long strands falling against the back of his shoulders, even with it pulled back by a high ponytail. The end of the war had certainly softened the look in his eyes and the curve of his shoulders—though it certainly made him look no less angry. The only worrying thing was how tired Felix looked; the bags beneath his eyes weren’t uncommon during the war, but a lack of sleep now was a strong point of concern.

But that would be an easier thing to lecture him about if Sylvain wasn’t just as miserable-looking, if not possibly worse.

So he slid on a smile, hoping that would counter it at least a little. “Coming all this way to visit me? You’re making a guy feel—”

“Don’t try it.”

Sylvain twitched at the coldness in Felix’s voice, at the barely-veiled anger in his face. “Try what?”

Felix snorted, shaking his head. “Your staff already told me you’ve been skipping meals.”

Sylvain winced. “Oh. _That_.”

“Yes, _that_.” Felix’s scowl deepened. “I didn’t think you’d be dramatic _while_ incapacitated. You weren’t so annoying before.”

To be fair, the last time he was bordering on bedridden, he’d taken a hit for Felix. At the time, he didn’t want to risk worrying the others, so he played it off, let the healers do their work. It wasn’t like they could worry about one soldier during war. But he was an injured Margrave, confined to bed in his manor. He could afford to be a _little_ dramatic.

But it wasn’t like Felix really cared about those details. So instead Sylvain merely pouted, letting his tone fall into something equally pathetic. “Your bedside manner needs work.”

Felix snorted again, dipping the spoon into the broth and bringing it up toward Sylvain with barely enough grace to prevent the contents from spilling into Sylvain’s lap. “Shut up and eat.”

Sylvain was never really one to deny Felix. It was a bad habit, really, how often he succumbed to Felix’s whims. It was probably why the staff must have bullied him into helping. So, to his own distaste, Sylvain leaned in to humor the man.

But even something as easy as that was soiled; leaning pulled at the stitches in his side, the still-deep wound sending jolts of pain through his body. His stomach churned, acid hot on his tongue. In a desperate act, Sylvain plastered himself back against the headboard, scrunching his eyes shut to focus on _not_ getting sick. It was barely working.

“ _Sylvain_.”

“I . . . can’t.” Sylvain swallowed, glad that with each one the taste diminished less and less. He’d be fine if he just stayed still.

Which was going to be hard to do with the way Felix was glowering at him. “How are you supposed to heal if you don’t eat?”

“Look.” Sylvain trained his gaze on his friend. If anything would work to get him to back off, it would be eye contact. “Throwing up will tear stitches. That won’t help healing much either, will it?”

Felix exhaled sharply, looking more and more like he’d rather skewer Sylvain than deal with this. “You’re impossible.”

“You should talk.”

“What.”

“I remember when Dimitri and I had to practically tie you down so you’d eat when you broke your arm back at the Academy.”

“Don’t be stupid. Why would I risk my own arm?”

“Why’d you only get injured right before the White Heron Cup?” Sylvain grinned. “I remember your face when the Professor nominated you.”

Felix sneered. “I remember _your_ face when the Professor had you take my place.”

Sylvain grimaced. That had been an adventure, to say the least. Sure, he had a noble’s training, meaning he was already familiar with most any dance they’d be tested on. Plus, he had an easy charisma, so he could make up for any gaps in skill between him and his opponents. It had been a strategic choice—perhaps more so than picking Felix in the first place—but that didn’t mean Sylvain _liked_ it.

“I’m so glad I grew out of that getup.” Sylvain muttered, running a hand through his hair. Sure, he hadn’t grown taller, but broader shoulders and a wider chest was all he needed to discard that outfit entirely. “Goddess knows the Professor would have made me galavant around the battlefield in it if I could’ve.”

Felix rolled his eyes.

“I didn’t mind it so much, you know. Not in theory.” Sylvain continued, fingers pausing and trying to work out a rather unkind knot from the strands. This could be a good distraction, if he played his cards right. “But it didn’t emphasize _any_ of my good features. Would it have killed them to show some thigh? Think about it—”

Before Sylvain could continue on his rant, a spoonful of broth was shoved in his face, close enough that he didn’t have to shift to take a bite—but also so close that he couldn’t avoid it.

“If you have enough energy for such stupid thoughts, then you have energy to eat.”

“But Feli-ix . . .”

Opening his mouth was a mistake. With a speed Sylvain had unfortunately forgotten, Felix shoved a spoonful of the broth into Sylvain’s mouth.

It was worse than he’d thought. While the smell had suggested the presence of meat, the broth itself tasted like water and salt. Maybe there was a vegetable of some sort, but only if it had been plucked well before it was ripe and left out till it was just on the edge of molding.

He opened his mouth to complain, only for his teeth to clack against another spoonful. Every time he opened his mouth, Felix shoved in another bite. And when he didn’t open his mouth, Felix gave him a look that suggested he would break Sylvain’s teeth if it would make it any easier to feed him.

So Sylvain relented, trying to let his mind wander to anything _but_ the meal in front of him.

He plucked at thoughts, but between the exhaustion and the awful food and Felix’s face, it was a miracle that he came up with _anything_. Even if it was the White Heron Cup that came to mind. Well, it had to be useful sometime.

Though it was a miracle that he got certified to begin with. Even with the background he had, there was a significant disadvantage to getting involved only a week before the event. The others had tons of time to practice with their professors and cohorts. Sylvain, on the other hand, only had an hour-long session with the Professor. And there was only so much to gain from someone who had been a mercenary all their life.

So, while practice wasn’t really in his repertoire, Sylvain tried anyway. He wasn’t really sure why he did, to be honest. It wasn’t like anyone had expected Felix to win, so he wasn’t making up for that. And it wasn’t like he was overly eager to meet the Professor’s expectations—already he had botched those with the last two failed certifications. And it wasn’t even like he did it for the love of dance—dancing was just another avenue of flirting, and he already had plenty under his belt.

 _‘We’re counting on you.’_ Dimitri had said, his smile painfully sincere. _‘I greatly anticipate your performance.’_

If it had not been his entire motivation, Dimitri’s words had at least been a potent one. It had him practicing late into the night, when the moon was his only source of light and his hums echoed into his makeshift training ground just outside the classrooms. The grass made his footsteps uneven, and the lack of a partner forced him to stumble more than once.

It was there that Dimitri found him, eyes wide and mouth agape. It wasn’t unmerited; Sylvain was sure Dimitri had been looking for him, if only to confirm that he was breaking his part of the deal, prowling the grounds like an insatiable fiend. If not that, then perhaps it was the sheer shock from the fact that Felix was more likely to flirt than Sylvain was to put effort into something.

Before Sylvain could open his mouth, Dimitri bridged the gap between them, offering a painfully poor mimicry of a curtsy. Still dipped low, he glanced up at Sylvain, a nervous smile on his lips.

No wonder, though. If someone found them like this—

No. It was late, and no one would be around. Sylvain needed the practice, needed the help, and Dimitri was offering. Dimitri—who had stepped on Sylvain’s feet more than anyone else in Faerghus—was trying to help. Sylvain could accept something as simple and pure as that.

So he bowed, taking Dimitri’s hand in his. He pulled the other close, leading him across the lawn. Dimitri had improved since they were kids—he was by no means a glorious dancer, but he was good enough for a prince. Not that it really mattered to Sylvain; he could have been as woefully clumsy as he had been when they were kids, Dimitri muttering a thousand apologies while Sylvain nursed wounded toes.

What mattered was having someone there to help. It helped to have someone there who wouldn’t judge him. Someone who smiled at him and meant it.

Sylvain blinked as the spoon clinked against the now-empty bowl. He glanced down; it was a miracle that he hadn’t made a mess, especially considering how far his mind had wandered. He had kind of hoped he would be lucky enough to avoid the taste entirely—unfortunately, the bland flavor lingered on his tongue, persistent even as he tried to swallow it down again and again.

“Wasn’t so hard, was it?” Felix grumbled, leaning back in his chair.

Sylvain wrinkled his nose, lips pressed together. The liquid still hadn’t settled in his stomach, but it was settling for now. And he was certain he’d make it stay that way, if he didn’t want to be forced to taste it twice.

“Well?”

“Yep.” Sylvain tried to hide his grimace, but he was certain that failed spectacularly. “You can go home with pride: you made a sick guy eat.”

Felix rolled his eyes, standing from his seat. He shifted as if he was going to the door, but then stopped suddenly. His gaze returned to Sylvain, eyes settling on the sheet that hid the worst of Sylvain’s injuries. “I’m staying for a few days.”

Sylvain blinked, his mouth dry. “You what?”

Felix sighed, the sound long and heavy. “Till you’re showing improvement. I’m going to be staying.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sylvain protested, a weak laugh falling past his lips. “You’re supposed to be protecting Dimitri. Shield of Faerghus and all that.”

“I’m staying.” Felix’s gaze snapped away, expression sliding into anger. Without another word, he turned on his heel, storming out of the room. The door rattled as it slammed back into the frame.

~☾~

It was supposed to be fun, Sylvain knew, dancing around like nothing was wrong with the world. Like they were just kids at the school, and not soldiers who had been thrown into conflicts that showed no sign of easing. But, between the kidnappings and Remire, Sylvain knew it could only get worse.

It wasn’t like he exactly _objected_ to a party. If they kept getting hit again and again by these conflicts without respite, then they’d certainly crumble. Or, at the very least, slip up. And, on a battlefield, even the smallest mistake could mean death.

So he got it. He wasn’t happy about it, but he got it.

That in itself was admittedly strange. Of all people, Sylvain Gautier should be the _most_ excited about it. It was an excuse to eat and drink and dance and laugh and flirt—to enjoy life’s little moments in a way that couldn’t follow him come the next morning. It was the sort of night for flings and fun, so long as he kept his distance from the Goddess Tower. He should have been the one running around, thrilling everyone with the night’s prospects.

And yet here he was, lingering at the edge of the room, a drink in hand as he watched the dancefloor. He’d not yet been asked to dance, but he imagined they avoided him for the disinterested look on his face. If he showed even a little interest, he was certain they’d flock around him immediately.

Even he didn’t wholly understand his detachment. Even if he wasn’t dancing to make girls fluster and swoon, it wasn’t like he was one to stay idle. He could have been standing by Felix at the edge of the room, teasing his friend’s every failed attempt to escape this monstrosity. Or he could have been hovering around Ingrid as she busied herself at the banquet tables, pointing out the tastier treats and staying just out of her fist’s reach as he asked her for a dance. Or he could have played the flirting game with Hilda or Dorothea, which was more a game of wits, but always good for a laugh and a sore ego. Or he could have tried to soothe Bernadetta as she hid under the tables, trying to tell her this was more inspiration than abuse. There were a dozen other things he _could_ have been doing, and yet here he was.

But every possibility just seemed so . . . bland. He’d be doing such things from sheer muscle memory and instinct, more of an act than it usually was. And that was just . . . pointless.

He sighed, wondering if he should just go back to his room, try to catch up on some sleep before the halls would echo with excited and overstimulated students, still reluctant to call it a night. Of course, if he did that, Dimitri would probably think he was taking a girl there, up to the same lascivious nonsense that he’d promised to curtail. No doubt he’d try to barge in and drag Sylvain back to the party anyway—and there was no point in wasting the prince’s time.

Sylvain’s eyes slid over to the prince in question. All things considered, he doubted Dimitri had much opportunity to observe _anything_. Girls swarmed around him like bees around the most delectable flower. Some of them, of course, were wasps—but none of their stings seemed to stem the tide of girls begging for a dance, for a moment of the prince’s affections.

Admittedly, Dimitri had been doing admirably for most of the party. When the people were still filtering in, and girls hadn’t yet chosen their target, he’d managed to dance with quite a few girls. His smile was charming, admittedly. It was the same sort of princely smile he’d been practicing for the last decade or so, all placating and no real emotion behind it.

But even from this distance Sylvain could see it start to crack. Dimitri was a good leader, but he was still that little boy that got flustered from too much attention. His smile weakened every time a girl spoke to him, his words a little more rushed at every request to dance. No doubt he was already a dozen requests behind, expected to dance until the band quit without any chance for respite. At this rate, he was going to snap.

Sylvain, knight of Faerghus that he was, left his perch to defend his future king. He wrapped an arm around Dimitri’s shoulder, his charming smile the king’s shield. His sword, a simple sentence.

“Your Highness,” he said, voice sweet and playful, “don’t you know the house leader is supposed to dance with his winner of the Cup?”

A light blush dusted over Dimitri’s cheeks, painfully reminiscent of their little chat in Sylvain’s room. He glanced over at Sylvain, that acted smile carved into a remarkably restrained frown. “Sylvain—”

Whatever complaint he had was drowned out by the instantaneous chorus of irritated girls, a chant of ‘unfair’ and accusations of Sylvain’s earlier distintest.

“Don’t worry,” Sylvain laughed, both to calm Dimitri and his potential partners, “this one’s a short one. Promise.”

Dimitri eyed him, unease still painfully clear on his face. Sylvain squeezed his shoulder, an implicit ‘trust me’ he’d used since they were kids.

Dimitri sighed. He wasn’t smiling, but at least he didn’t look like Sylvain was out to shame him. “I suppose it's tradition.”

“Perfect!” Sylvain grinned, pulling Dimitri toward the dance floor. He grinned at the still-furious girls. “He’ll be all yours in a bit!”

Sylvain pulled Dimitri along, not particularly thrilled by the clear resistance that Dimitri still offered; he supposed he should be grateful that the prince hadn’t made himself entirely immovable. Even Sylvain knew that he stood no chance in taking Dimitri anywhere if he didn’t want to go.

But still, the slight resistance was almost insulting. As if Sylvain had ever done anything to purposefully shame or harm his prince.

Then again, it wasn’t like their deal had gone well . . .

He let out a slow breath, slowing his pace once they’d made it to the opposite end of the dancefloor. Even if the girls wanted to follow Dimitri here, not all of them would make it through the crowd. And a good portion of them wouldn’t want to, anyway; what was the point of dancing with the prince if not everyone could see them?

He turned on his heel, miming a curtsy for the prince in time with the violin.

Dimitri raised a single eyebrow, that frown still stubbornly on his face. “Sylvain—”

Sylvain closed the gap between them, taking Dimitri’s hand and settling it on his waist. The other hand he pulled up so he could delicately cup his hand there. He pulled them close, his lips very nearly brushing against Dimitri’s forehead.

He tilted his head, shifting so he could whisper into Dimitri’s ear. “It wouldn’t look good if the future king didn’t take the lead, right?”

Dimitri pressed his lips together, shifting so his gaze caught Sylvain’s. “You’re serious about this.”

Sylvain stepped back, grinning as Dimitri followed in step. It only took a few seconds for Dimitri to finally take the lead, his hand sliding to the small of Sylvain’s back. His grip there was firm, but not uncomfortable. He seemed to lead Sylvain around effortlessly, which was rather remarkable considering his gaze was stuck to the _floor_.

Even at this angle, though, Sylvain could still see the pink at the tips of his ears. No doubt he hadn’t expected to dance with a guy tonight—let alone Sylvain. It was one thing to play the charming prince. It was another thing entirely to be forced to dance with the resident womanizer.

He probably expected Sylvain to swap their roles at any moment, to sweep Dimitri into a deep dip that would have the academy talking for weeks. Or maybe he expected Sylvain to whisper lascivious things that would fluster the prince, making him fluster and stumble and make a fool of himself. Or he thought Sylvain might continue their flirting lessons, just to remind Dimitri how bad of an idea it was to associate with someone like Sylvain.

But that wasn’t the point of this. The point was to get Dimitri to relax—and that certainly wasn’t happening now.

“You know, Dimitri,” Sylvain mused, tone light and sweet, “I like your eyes better than the top of your head.”

Dimitri’s hand tightened around Sylvain’s, but he didn’t look up. So he expected Sylvain to embarrass him again. “Is that so?”

“Of course.” Sylvain stepped just out of place to keep them to this side of the floor. “Otherwise it makes me start thinking about cutting your hair.”

Dimitri exhaled softly, just the barest ghost of a laugh on his breath. “I’m well aware you don’t like it.”

“C’mon, Your Highness,” Sylvain continued, lips quirking, “I can think of a hundred better hairstyles for you. A little shorter to show off those eyes of yours. Or maybe longer, pulled back. That would look rather regal, don’t you think?”

Dimitri huffed, eyes flicking up anxiously to meet Sylvain’s. “You should talk.”

“Oh?”

Dimitri’s chuckle was soft, but charming all the same. “Your hair’s in your face, too.”

“Yes, well mine is _style_. It shows off my best features.”

Dimitri looked thoughtful. His eyes ran over Sylvain’s face, lips pressed together. He wasn’t frowning anymore, at least. “I disagree.”

Sylvain swallowed. “Maybe I’ll consider changing it up, then. I’ve been thinking of something lighter, anyway.” He tilted his head, humming. “How about I’ll cut my hair if you cut yours?”

Dimitri laughed, shaking his head. “No, I think I learned my lesson well enough from our last arrangement.”

“Suit yourself.” Sylvain shrugged. “Offer’s on the table.”

Perhaps Dimitri wasn’t smiling fully just yet, but there was still time. Still time to get the prince at ease before they had to part ways. The song hadn’t yet hit its climax, meaning he had at least a couple more minutes.

“You know,” Sylvain mused, voice soft enough only for the both of them, “I could probably get you out of here without anyone noticing.”

Dimitri’s eyebrows raised, first from surprise then to curiosity. “Is that so?”

“I’m sure you’ve noticed, but I’m _very_ good at sneaking out.”

“Ha,” Dimitri’s laugh was more of a resigned sigh than anything else, “I’m fully aware.”

“All I have to do,” Sylvain continued, “is get Felix to make a fuss. Ingrid will come to scold him, _someone_ will have to step in—yours truly, of course—and you can sneak out the back.” He hummed, glancing across the room as he thought. “Doubt anyone would check the Goddess Tower.”

Dimitri blinked. “You’d still be stuck here.”

“It’s a knight’s duty to take the hits for his prince.”

“Sylvain.”

“Eh, I’m sure I’ll survive.” He shrugged. “Besides, _whatever_ will I do with all those girls who have no prince to distract them?”

Dimitri laughed, ducking his head a little to contain it. “Ah, so that is your plan.”

Sylvain smiled. “I’m afraid you’ve figured me out, Your Highness.”

“Then” Dimitri licked his lips, the motion more enrapturing that Sylvain would have liked, “I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.” He swallowed, glancing away. “I don’t wish to interfere with your progress when you’ve come so far.”

Sylvain swallowed. There was something in the way that Dimitri’s lashes brushed along his cheeks, the way the light made it look like a blush was dusted across his nose, the way his mind seemed to be both here and so very far away. “I suppose there’s only one alternative.” He said, voice more a whisper than he would have liked.

“Hm?”

“You’ll just have to come dance with me when you need a break.”

Dimitri smiled, bowing low as the song came to an end. “Perhaps I will take you up on that.”

~☀~

Sylvain woke to the sound of voices outside his door. He was familiar enough with this kind—too loud to be a whisper, too quiet to be a shout. Rage laced every word like a toxin, the sentiment clear even if Sylvain couldn’t make out the words.

It was more common back in his Academy days, after he had pissed off one too many girls—or perhaps their brothers. It was easy to ignore them from behind thick wood, to pretend that nothing existed beyond the locked door. They never forgot by the time he finally emerged, but at least the rage had diminished enough to make their strikes less permanent.

Besides, it wasn’t like he was roaming now like he had in his youth or during the war. Unlike then, there was a finality to pursuing such amusements in Gautier; any mistake, and sport could become a shackle. He stopped roaming around for girls, and barely offered more than a wink to his staff. So, while it confused the staff and ‘coincidental’ noble visitors that _the_ Sylvain Gautier paled in comparison to his reputation, it was for the best.

Besides, he knew now that ignoring the sounds outside his door didn’t make them go away; it just delayed the inevitable.

Admittedly, that did make this current situation rather confusing. There was no reason for there to be such a cacophony outside his door—and certainly not the strange mix of both female _and_ male voices.

Lips pressed together, he leaned forward, hoping that would earn him _some_ sort of clarity. Instead, all he earned was a throbbing in his chest, a radiating pain like needles beneath his skin. It spread from the gash still lingering at his side, shooting up in a way that made his throat clench like a fist wrapped around it.

A groan forced its way past his lips, silencing the voices immediately. The silence was replaced by the sound of steps, moving away too quickly for him to even guess how many people had been there. More than three, at least. But any vague number between three and fifty was hardly any help.

His attention shifted to the slight scrape of boots as someone’s weight shifted from side to side just outside his door. It was weird; the staff had hardly hesitated about anything before.

Sylvain pressed his lips together, leaning back into his pillow nest as the doorknob rattled. He smiled; he knew it looked like a bare shadow of his usual, but anything less caused more fussing than he wanted to deal with. Looking pleasant made people go away.

The smile was quick to falter, though, when he realized who had remained outside his door.

It was Felix, a scowl on his face and another bowl in his hands. It looked like the night had not been kind to him; there were already deeper circles beneath his eyes, a dullness to them that Sylvain hadn’t seen since the war. His hair was a mess, too—more the messy bun of their Academy days than the tidied look he had taken on to be more fitting as the Duke.

Not that it was entirely surprising: between the unfamiliar bed and the inescapable cold of Gautier, there was absolutely no chance the Duke would have a restful night. He’d always complained about it on even his most casual visits, usually demanding that Sylvain spar with him to exhaust himself enough to sleep.

And, as Sylvain was certainly in no state to train, that meant that the sleep deprivation would place Felix somewhere between vaguely difficult and positively impossible.

Sylvain just had to figure out just how bad his chances were. “Ugh, eating again? Isn’t once in twenty-four hours enough?”

“Shut up.” Felix’s scowl shifted into a sneer, the chair scraping harshly against the floor as he fell into it. The broth sloshed in the bowl, but unfortunately none of it escaped the ceramic confines.

“Oh, come _on_.” Sylvain whined, pressing himself more into his pillow. He widened his eyes into some semblance of innocence, a pout on his lips. “Have _you_ tried it? It’s awful.”

It only seemed to annoy Felix more. “You wouldn’t still be eating it if you weren’t stupid enough to skip meals.” He hissed, anger rising with the tenseness in his shoulders and the deepening curl of his lips.

“So you _haven’t_ tried it.” It was a bad idea to taunt Felix, but it wasn’t like Felix could make the situation any worse.

Without warning, Felix thrust the bowl into Sylvain’s lap. It wasn’t terribly forceful, but it was enough to pull at the stitches on Sylvain’s side, making him gasp and whimper on an exhale. His fingers clenched into the sheets, eyes squeezing shut for only a moment as he struggled to regain his composure.

If Felix felt guilty, he didn’t show it. Instead, he flopped back into his seat, arms crossed tight and pulled close to his body. He wasn’t sneering any more, but his lips were still curled into a scowl. He was glaring, gaze fierce and furious, but at least the window was taking the brunt of it.

“Just,” Felix swallowed, as if he were swallowing down a thousand curses that Sylvain deserved, “eat.”

Sylvain sighed, glancing down at the bowl in his lap. The heat was already seeping through the bowl, warm against his skin in a way that was increasingly uncomfortable.Throwing it across the room would only make Felix return with another. And, if he tossed it again after that, he had little doubt the man would force it down his throat.

He just wanted to sleep. In sleep the world could be ignored for just a bit longer. He could dream of a pleasant past, of a time when he still felt he had a chance. When his smiles weren’t always fake and placating. When he felt like himself and not like a puppet for Gautier’s duties.

Waking was a world of pain, fake people, and soup.

And, for perhaps a little while longer, Felix.

Sylvain chewed on the inside of his cheek as he brought the spoon to his lips. Slowly, he began to force himself to eat, doing his best to ignore the flavor on his tongue. It was a fool’s errand, though; the smell filled his senses, the taste lingered and overwhelmed everything.

And so he tried to distract himself. The contents of the room was still exactly the same, his dresser covered with bandages and ointments in such a cluttered way that it made his skin crawl. Then there were his blankets, pulled back to the foot of his bed due to one too many fevers early on. And then there was his armor set at the far end of the room, still damaged and technically clean, but handled with such inexperience that he _knew_ he’d be paying extra to get the blacksmith to fix and clean it properly.

And then there was Felix, not even offering Sylvain a glance while he ate. His lip was curled firmly, occasionally twitching in time with his finger tapping against his arm. He wasn’t staring at nothing; there was something outside Sylvain’s window that occasionally grabbed his attention, but it did nothing for his sour expression.

Sylvain couldn’t blame him; from here, there was some visibility to one of the training yards. Very likely, Felix was watching Gautier’s men training. Maybe he was even evaluating them, scorning them for their weakness or inexperience. Knowing him, he was aching to join them, to grind them into the dirt with that stupidly cocky grin he always had when he won.

And yet here he was, tending to a useless man.

“You know,” Sylvain muttered, dropping his spoon into the empty bowl, “you don’t have to do this.”

Felix snorted.

“Honest. I’ll behave. Would you believe me if I promise?”

At least this time Felix acknowledged him with a glare. Still, his lips were stubbornly pressed together.

Suddenly, Felix darted up from his seat, snatching the bowl from Sylvain’s hand. The spoon rattled in the bowl as he stormed across the room, saying nothing before slamming the door shut behind him. Even with the door and walls between them, Sylvain could hear his heels clack against the stone with every stomp.

Sylvain sighed, sinking more into his pillows. It had been a long time since Felix had acted like this. He had thought their friendship had come far enough to prevent it—after all, it wasn’t so long ago that Felix had scolded him for being reckless, stomping his foot like a child as Sylvain teased him. And now . . . now it was like the first time they had really _talked_ , when Felix valued his training more than his friendship.

True, he had never been one to entertain Sylvain’s whims. For the most part, Sylvain had been grateful for that. Even if Felix would never admit it, Sylvain knew he still cared.

This, though, was different. It was more like Sylvain was an obligation—a distraction, if not an outright burden.

Sylvain sighed, running his fingers through his hair. It wasn’t like he was unaccustomed to Felix’s sharp words; too often that man said things without meaning to, and sometimes they were too true and too tactless for his kindness to be easy to decipher. But this stung in a way that was painful in its familiarity.

Back then, it had been right when Edelgard had been revealed as the Flame Emperor. Sylvain had been scared then, horrified at the way Dimitri ran through enemies like they were nothing. No, apathy would have been easier to understand. But the prince killed like his enemies were _meant_ to be eviscerated, like he got joy from their every scream and whimper. It had haunted Sylvain’s dreams, utterly unbearable until he _needed_ to talk to someone who might understand.

He had cornered Felix in the library back then, asking if this was what Felix had loathed so. Felix had been reluctant, but honest. It was going well until Felix’s expression soured at the mere mention of helping their friend. He turned his back on Sylvain then, like he’d been a fool not even worth his attention.

So then Sylvain tried to reach out to Dimitri, to pull him from the cliff’s edge before he’d plummet into the abyss. If Dimitri wouldn’t accept his help, he determined, then he’d at least try to be the one person who _understood_. Who looked at Dimitri and saw someone he cared about, not a monster in a man’s flesh.

But Dimitri had turned his back to him, too.

 _‘No one needs your help, Sylvain.’_ Dimitri had said, voice cold. _‘Mind your place; that’s all I desire from you_.’

And his place, Sylvain had realized then, was as the silent knight, the weapon to be used to defend the Kingdom, whether it be with his prince (as Dimitri seemed to deign to) or in spite of him (as Felix did). Even as the war raged on, Sylvain’s opinion seemed of little worth, nothing compared to the balance between Byleth’s guidance and Felix’s poignant criticism. His assistance had been limited to the soldiers he had managed to coerce his father into sending.

Sylvain’s fingers curled into the sheets. It wasn’t that different now, if he thought about it. His opinion was nothing—not with being so far in Gautier and so often in Sreng. Dimitri and Felix seemed to handle things just fine without him. Which meant he was only useful as the weapon that kept their borders safe. Like his father had, and his father before him. The place he’d been born to as a Gautier.

His door opened without the consideration of a knock. Sylvain blinked; his room had fallen to darkness, illuminated only by the candle of his intruder. Well, perhaps it was on him, then; if he couldn’t even tell that the day had passed, he certainly could have ignored a knock.

Then again, Felix was probably still too mad to knock. He tended to hold onto grudges for far too long.

With a sigh, he glanced over at the doorway, the unpleasant smell reaching his nose well before his eyes could adjust. But he could clearly tell that wasn’t Felix; the shadow was taller, for one, and their figure was far more curvaceous than even Felix could manage, even with his most form-fitting tunic.

“Margrave?” The voice was far softer and sweeter, too, ringing in his ears like a nail to the skull. “I’ve come to change your bandages . . . and to provide food.”

Ah, so Felix’s patience had run out, and he decided that these mundane things could be left to the serving staff. Or he had decided that nothing was changing in Sylvain’s condition, so he could head home.

Sylvain slid on a charming smile, slowly uncurling his fingers from his sheets. “Oh, right. Thank you.”

Like everything in Gautier, the medic’s hands were harsh, unkind in her ministrations. Despite the softness in her voice, everything was done with a clinical precision, cold in its lack of consideration. The medicine needed to be rubbed into the cuts and burns to prevent infection, and she rubbed so hard that he was sure the stitches would pop. The bandages needed to be secured firmly, and she wrapped them so tightly that he was sure he was losing circulation. Her expression hadn’t changed at all through it all, restricted only to mandatory politeness.

Even her bedside manner was lacking. When she was done with her work, she set the bowl by his bed, exiting the room before he could so much as ask her to pull up his sheets once more.

By the time he managed to wiggle the sheets back over him, he was shuddering, and his meal was as icy as he felt. So, as an act of petty revenge, he turned his head away and closed his eyes.

~☾~

Sylvain leaned against a nearby tree, the bark scraping against his armor. He was out of breath, his body aching with every minute movement. This was the third Empire battalion he’d had to fight in two months. The Empire was getting bolder now, sending more powerful fighters with their scouts. No doubt they thought the constant assault would force Gautier to crumple from sheer exhaustion.

A lot of good that did them, too, with a dozen of their soldiers fallen in the dirt, their bodies already being obscured by snowfall. Soon enough, they’d vanish into the nothing. They’d be found as bones and armor someday, when the snow melted during the exceedingly short Gautier spring. Then they’d vanish once more, lost again and again to the unrelenting cruelty of nature.

Sometimes, he wondered what it would be like to join them. If anyone would even look if he vanished into the ice. If they’d mourn when they found his armor.

He sighed, running a bloodied gauntlet through his hands. It was already tacky, the smell as familiar as that of sweat, of cold on his skin, of the clank of his armor. As familiar as the one thing that kept him grounded.

He brushed his hands off on his pants before reaching for something in his satchel. It was a rolled up letter, one that had been crumpled far too many times. Many of the words on it were no longer legible, worn by contact and the consequences of melted snow. But there were still those words that mattered.

_It is our duty to inform the Margravate of Gautier that Prince Dimitri was convicted for the murder of the Regent, Grand Duke Rufus, commited as an act of revenge for his perceived involvement in the Tragedy of Duscur. For this crime, Prince Dimitri has been sentenced to Death. His sentence has already . . ._

Sylvain clenched the letter in his hands. He couldn’t die yet; not when there were those who couldn’t fight anymore.

An arrow shot through the air, embedding into the wood. His cheek stung against the frigid air.

He spun around, the trees around him replaced by crumbling stone and rotting wood. The old markets of Garreg Mach had fallen to ruin, ravaged by the initial battle and the cruelty of time.

But he still knew these streets. He knew the corners and alleys that would hide these stupid bandits. He knew the statues and pillars he could hide behind as he inched his way closer. He knew how to make the most of the plaza and the old fountains to cast his larger spells.

And yet all that knowledge evaporated the second he saw a cloaked man across town, impossibly tearing a man in two with his bare hands. It was mortifying, horrifying—but so agonizingly familiar that he lost all sense. He fought through the bandits like they were hardly worth his consideration, taking the most direct route. It didn’t matter if he got injured. It didn’t matter if his magic threatened to rebound against his skin. It didn’t matter if his lungs ached like there was fire in them. He had to _know_.

The man turned, and the world crumbled around them. The rubble turned to damaged pillars and crumpled stone. Behind him was a large glass window that had shattered in too many places. But still the sun sent scattered colors across the floor, dancing against the back of the man’s head like a halo.

And it was Dimitri. Time had changed him—it had wounded him severely—but it was still _Dimitri_.

Sylvain stumbled forward, a warmth blooming in his chest. For five years, it had felt like his heart was freezing, just becoming another part of Gautier’s ice. But with Dimitri here, it melted away.

A smile slid onto Sylvain’s lips, pure and untainted by his years of falsehoods. “Dimitri.” He breathed, the name a healing balm on his lips.

Dimitri turned more, his eye falling on Sylvain. No, it looked right _through_ him, like he wasn’t even worth the acknowledgement.

Heels clicked behind him, and that icy gaze was quick to meet the source. Dimitri pushed past Sylvain, shoving him aside like he was little more than another obstacle in the way of his quest. Sylvain stumbled backward, catching himself on a pew.

He was only fast enough to see Dimitri’s form retreat with the Professor’s, their words echoing in the too-large confines of the cathedral.

It was a foolish endeavor, but Sylvain reached for him, for anything. All he earned was the brush of Dimitri’s cape against his fingers, too quick for him to even grasp.

~☀~

“Sylvain!”

Sylvain woke with a start, his breaths heavy and heaving. His side ached painfully, worsened as his legs tangled into his sheets. Worst of all was his shoulder, agitated horribly by the fact that he was still reaching out—reaching for nothing.

Still panting, Sylvain brought his hand close to his chest. It did nothing to ease the ache—the damage had already been done—but it at least was some small comfort. And he needed all the comfort he could get to combat that image of Dimitri in his mind.

He groaned, rubbing his face. He was sweating; it made his hair plaster against his forehead and sting at his eyes. It was that expression, always that expression. One that he kept enduring again and again as he kept making hopeless ventures into the cathedral. Each time praying that, just once, Dimitri would _see_ him.

And still, years later, it haunted him.

“Sylvain?” The voice was softer now, more uncertain. Not a male, so certainly not Felix. And he didn’t recognize it among his staff.

Sylvain shifted his hand, glancing up to see Ingrid hovering at his side. It was still dark, but he knew that look on her face. He hadn’t seen an expression like this since one of her pegasi was about to give birth. No, back then, there was at least the intervention of excitement. The only thing on her face now was worry, if not terror. Her hand lingered in the space between them, like she wanted to console but was too afraid to touch.

Sylvain swallowed; he’d distressed Ingrid enough in his youth. “Ah, I must still be dreaming.” He mused, his complacent sigh doing little to ease the tension that still coiled in his spine. “This is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on.”

Ingrid’s expression twisted. “Sylvain—” Whatever she was about to say, she caught herself, instead shaking her head.

At least her hand no longer seemed stuck in limbo. She bridged the gap between them, letting her fingers card through his hair. Trimmed nails scratched lightly over his scalp, thin fingers pressing in a way that made every muscle in his body relax.

He’d done this once, he could vaguely recall, when they were little. He’d visited Ingrid as a kid, watching her train until they’d both been doused by rain. He was used to getting cold and was unaffected. She hadn’t been so lucky, forced to fight a fever until a couple days before his departure. Again and again she apologized for wasting his visit. He insisted that he didn’t mind; he was happy enough carding his fingers through her hair, reading her favorite stories out loud until she’d fallen asleep.

“Are you okay?” Ingrid asked, fingers shifting to the base of his scalp.

Sylvain’s eyes closed involuntarily, pressing insistently against her hand. “Mmhm.”

“You were making a lot of noise.” She continued, voice gentle. Her fingers found a spot right behind his ear that made him sigh softly. “And twitching. I thought—”

“Mm, just dreaming I was chasing after girls.” Sylvain hummed, opening his eyes to look up at her. “Pretty ones.”

Ingrid pulled her hand away, much to his dismay. He could appreciate, at least, that she didn’t look disgusted. Instead, her lip quirked into a small smile, head shaking fondly. “Is that so?”

“Mmhm.” His eyes followed as she stepped away from the bed, stepping into his bathroom. In the limited light, he could see her dip a cloth into one of the water basins reserved for handling his fevers. He settled back against his pillows, rubbing at his eyes. “They ran fast.”

“I imagine they did.” Ingrid mused, water trickling as she rang out the rag.

Before he expected it, Sylvain felt a touch at his wrist. He pulled his hand away. Ingrid was already standing above him, a soft smile on her face. She ran the cloth across his forehead and cheeks, wiping gently at the skin there. It was cold, but for once the cold felt like a sanctuary.

“Lean forward a little.” Ingrid said, voice still so soft and gentle.

Sylvain obeyed without question, sighing in contentment as the cloth dabbed at the back of his neck. She ran it softly along his spine, slow when it came to the spots where the burns had licked further up his shoulder and kissed his neck.

“You’re a goddess.” Sylvain hummed.

“That’s blasphemy, Sylvain.”

“Mm, don’t care.”

Ingrid laughed, the sound soft and sweet. Was there _anything_ that wasn’t soft in comparison to the care he’d received in Gautier? He wasn’t sure his heart could take it. Or, at the very least, his brain.

“Feel better?” Ingrid asked, touching his good shoulder to guide him back against his pillows.

Sylvain smiled, the expression lazy and relaxed. “Much.”

“Good.” She brought the cloth up to his forehead once more, letting it rest there a little longer before she pulled it away. “Would you like me to wash your hair in the morning?”

 _Yes_ , he wanted that more than he could ever express. Of everything the staff had handled, his hair certainly hadn’t been on the list. It was heavy with oils and dried sweat, unkept and uncared for. They reasoned that they didn’t want him to catch cold; he imagined it was because it was too much of a bother to figure out how to wash it without getting his stitches and bandages wet.

Which meant it was a bother he didn’t want to force on Ingrid.

“Don’t worry about it.” He said, miming a yawn. “I doubt you came here to wash a layabout’s hair.”

Ingrid smiled. “I’ll see you in the morning. Get some rest.”

Sylvain returned the smile, waving slightly as she left the room. There was positively no chance of that—not when it was so likely he’d dream about _that_ expression again—but Ingrid didn’t need to know. She was the kind of person who would lecture him until he fell asleep just on sheer principle. Or, perhaps, she’d stay up with him, just so he had the company.

His fingers curled back into the sheets, gaze falling to the smallest crack of scenery that he could see through his window. He couldn’t see the ground, but he could at least manage the snow-covered mountains and immense forests in the distance. The sky was clear, the stars twinkling as the moon began to sink just behind the horizon.

Maybe Ingrid had just arrived, braving the journey while the weather was good. Perhaps the yelling outside their door had been Felix fussing at her, annoyed that she’d taken such a risk. Or, perhaps, furious that she didn’t trust him to handle Sylvain. Of course, it wasn’t like Felix ever won their arguments.

He sighed, watching as the moon vanished beyond the horizon, replaced by the deep violet of the skyline. It quickly gave way to the morning sun, to the simple taste of light warming the earth.

Ingrid returned when the sun seeped in through his window. Her smile was like the morning light: slow and gradual as she came into his room, warm in a way that made him yearn all the more for it.

“Did you sleep well?” She asked, arms wrapped around a large basin. Her cheeks were flushed, likely a mixture of the exertion from carrying it and the hot steam that brushed over her skin. A few cloths were draped over the basin’s edge, nudging at her fingers with her every step.

“How could I not?” He asked, watching as she shifted the basin in her grasp. “Especially after _that_ treatment.”

“I’m happy I could help.” Ingrid let the basin rest on her hip as a free hand nudged at his knees. Sylvain obliged, parting them, and she smiled. With excessive care, she set the basin in the opening.

Ingrid took the towel from around her neck and placed it around his. Her fingers were careful as she pulled the fabric in place, overly gentle everywhere it could touch his skin. With that done, she reached into her pockets, grabbing a few vials of aromatic soaps that he’d given to her in his youth. A part of him was offended that she’d never used them; another part was pleased that she was using something he liked.

But something was still nagging at him. “Not to sound ungrateful,” he mused, picking up one of the bottles to read the label, “but why are you here?”

“To wash your hair.” Ingrid said, plucking the bottle from his fingers. She uncorked it to smell it, quick to wrinkle her nose. To be fair, that one was perhaps the most aggressively floral. “Or did you forget already?”

Sylvain cleared his throat. “That’s not what I mean.”

“Oh. Right.” Ingrid opened the other bottle, clearly finding this one less abrasive. She set it by the bin, moving the others to his nightstand. “We were in Fhirdiad when we received notice that you were . . . injured.” She paused, attention far too focused on her fingers as she rolled up her sleeves. “They didn’t give us any details, so we came to see for ourselves.”

Sylvain chuckled, shaking his head fondly. “I wish they’d told me. I would have known better.”

Ingrid paused. “You weren’t the one who sent it?”

In the first week, he’d barely been conscious long enough to remember his own name, let alone write a letter. No doubt the council wanted to make sure Fhirdiad knew Gautier wasn’t at its best, and they couldn’t rely on him to do it. Besides, it was Gautier’s way to minimize its own issues—even his father’s death had been relayed to the king with no more than a sentence. No doubt it would have been handled the same, if Sylvain _had_ perished.

“You know how it is.” He said with a casual shrug of his good shoulder. “They like handling the communications. Haven’t broken them of it, yet.”

“I see.” Ingrid’s lips pressed into a firm line, eyebrows knit together as she tried to read into his expression. Of course, she never really had been able to read any deeper than he showed her. And, by the exhausted look on her face, she was no more successful this time. She shook her head, shifting her attention to the cloths hanging over the basin.

“Still,” Sylvain continued, clicking his tongue, “you and Felix both didn’t need to come. Hell, you could have just sent a messenger.”

Ingrid’s fingers tightened around the one of the cloths, body still for longer than necessary. After far too long, her gaze shifted back to her work, where she began soaking and ringing out the cloths.

After all of them had been soaked thoroughly, she moved closer, her hand brushing over Sylvain’s shoulder. The warmth seeped into his skin, sweet and soothing. He obeyed without thought as she tapped at his skin there, leaning forward into a more seated position. It wasn’t much—his wound wouldn’t allow _too_ much—but it was enough for his head to bend over the basin, the steam pleasant against his skin.

“I’m glad I didn’t.” Ingrid wrung out the soaked cloth over his head.

“I know you were worried, but you don’t need to baby me.” Sylvain sighed, closing his eyes as the warmth seemed to seep into his bones.

Ingrid’s fingers combed through his locks to encourage the water. “Someone has to.”

Sylvain swallowed, his throat tight. His fingers clenched into the sheets.

She huffed, the sweet smell of soap curling around him as she poured it into her hand. “I can’t believe they let you get this bad.”

“Didn’t want to risk a chill.” He muttered.

“I suppose.” One hand ran through his hair again, the water dripping into the basin beneath him. “Close your eyes.”

Sylvain obeyed, letting himself focus instead on the way her fingers curled into his hair, how the suds seemed to pull him into a land far less frigid and unwelcoming. Warm water dripped down along his temple, every drop caught with Ingrid’s thumb before it reached his eyes.

She washed his hair for longer than necessary, her movements slow and meticulous. She massaged along his neck, at the base of his skull, at the small hairs along his temples. The small circles eased the tension along his spine and the stiffness in his shoulders.

When her hands pulled away, he wasn’t upset; he was satisfied. He just kept still as she poured water over his head, her fingers working out the suds.

He only opened his eyes when she draped a towel over his head, her work slow and gentle. The water beneath him was utterly soiled, ruined by the dirt the healers hadn’t cleaned out when he first arrived in Gautier, mixed with the sweat of far too many fevers and restless nights.

“Okay, you can lean back.” Ingrid’s voice was gentle as she pulled the towels away.

Sylvain hummed, shifting back into place. His chest was a little sore from staying like that for so long, but it was nothing compared to the pain he’d had before. And it hardly mattered compared to the way he just seemed to melt against his pillows.

His hair was a little damp, but not enough to drip onto his face. A few minutes, and it would be dry like nothing had happened. Well, except it would be a lot cleaner.

“Truly a wonder.” Sylvain mused, running his fingers through the strands. _Oh_ , it felt wonderful.

But Ingrid didn’t respond. She didn’t even move the basin or the pile of linens from his bed. He glanced up with a smile, only then noticing the look on her face.

It wasn’t soft, or gentle, or peaceful. She wasn’t even smiling. Her expression looked grim; her exhaustion finally breaking through the thin veneer of her care.

“Really, Ingrid,” he sighed, smile turning fond, “you don’t have to worry so much. I’m fine.”

“It’s . . . not that.” Ingrid looked away, dropping the linens into the dirtied water. She looked away as she moved the whole mess to the floor.

Sylvain shifted his legs, smiling in invitation.

Ingrid took it without hesitation. Her gaze lingered on his chest, where the bandages still peeked beneath his shirt. Her jaw clenched. “I know it’s foolish. I just thought . . . the worst of the fighting would be done when the war ended.”

“This isn’t the worst.” Sylvain shrugged. “There was a good chance of this happening every time we stepped out of the monastery. This . . . well, this was just from me being careless.”

“I suppose.”

“Not that I’d really mind, though.” Sylvain’s lips curled into a wry smile. “Anything to save a beautiful woman from the battlefield.”

Ingrid laughed, tugging lightly at one of his stray locks of hair. “You’re impossible.”

“Keeps me predictable.”

Ingrid opened her mouth to respond, likely to scold, but she was interrupted by a knock at the door.

Before either of them could respond, the door swung open. A very familiar navy-haired man stepped through it, his expression sour.

Felix froze mid-step, eyes narrowing as his gaze fell over them. “I thought you were done.”

Ingrid scoffed. “I wasn’t just going to dump the bucket on his head.”

Felix scoffed, quickly closing the gap between the door and Sylvain’s bed. His eyes fell on the dirtied basin, then on the soup still at Sylvain’s bedside. The twitch of his eyebrow was unmistakable, as was the curl of his lips. Sylvain tensed, already prepared for the tongue-lashing he’d get this time.

But it never came. Instead, Felix sat at the edge of the bed, setting down the case that had been in his arms. He opened it, pulling out a board, dice, and familiar figures.

A game. It was a board game from Sylvain’s room—one the Professor had gifted him ages ago.

“I thought,” Felix muttered, squinting as he tried to place everything in the correct place, “you’d be less annoying if you weren’t bored all the time.”

Sylvain blinked. Once, then once more. But the game was still on his bed, his friends still at his side. He swallowed, lips curling into a smile.

“Hey Ingrid,” he said, his voice sweet, “it plays up to four. Interested?”

~☾~

Sylvain’s steps echoed in the cathedral, the sound too significant against the silence. No one was foolish enough to come here at night, not when it was more likely they’d be caught alone with the shadow of their former prince. Even Felix—who Sylvain _knew_ had been watching keenly for any change—didn’t stay here past sunset. He told Sylvain he needed to get his training in sometime, but Sylvain knew better.

It hadn’t been like this at first. At first, Dimitri’s disposition could be dismissed to the stresses of war. But, with every passing week, more and more people saw him as a monster. Sylvain could hear the whispers among some of the soldiers, wondering if it was suicide to follow an insane man into battle. Others worried that, if they won, the mad king would make the world far worse than it had been under Edelgard. A few wondered if the ghosts he whispered to were real, and an omen of how doomed they were.

The only thing that kept them all together, at least for now, was a miraculously-alive Professor.

Sylvain stepped up to the ruined statue of Seiros, only her feet remaining among the rubble. Behind it, glass cracked and fell with the slightest breeze, shattering to the floor. Beside him, the shadow of their king hunched over himself, still muttering to himself like he hadn’t noticed Sylvain’s presence.

It was a mild improvement, at least; the first time, Sylvain had found himself with a blade to his throat, those clawed gauntlets cutting into his flesh. If Dimitri hadn’t had the briefest glimmer of clarity, he would have probably gutted Sylvain, rather than simply tossing him against the pews.

But Sylvain wasn’t keen on settling.

“I’m sorry.” Dimitri muttered, voice rough and strained.

Sylvain blinked, glancing down at his prince. But the man wasn’t looking at him; his gaze was focused elsewhere, stuck on someone standing before them. Not the Goddess—no, there was no reverence to his stare—just anxiety, even terror, behind that dull and exhausted eye of his.

Sylvain’s fist clenched. Felix didn’t have to say anything for them all to know that Dimitri was talking to the ghosts in his own head. He hissed promises that bordered on impossible, begged for mercy when there was no one around who demanded it. His whispers were distant, sounding not too far from a ghoul himself.

Sylvain remembered that, a long time before this mess, he’d wondered if Dimitri was the sort of guy who needed to recite things to remember them. It had never really shown when they were walking around or in class, but it was always those few late nights when Sylvain couldn’t sneak out that let him hear Dimitri on the other side of their shared wall. It had been whispers then, no more than murmurs, but they often went on until the sun peeked above the horizon. He’d thought little of it then; _now_ he wondered if Dimitri had been speaking to his ghosts ever since they were students—if he’d been good at hiding it, or if they had really been that unobservant.

Sylvain had done nothing back then. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

“You should get some rest.” Sylvain kept his voice as gentle as he could make it. “Your old bed is actually in good shape. Might be better than . . . than wherever you’ve been sleeping.”

Dimitri’s voice quieted but he didn’t acknowledge Sylvain’s words. His lips moved as if he were still muttering, even though Sylvain couldn’t hear it. It wasn’t like the ghosts in his head needed sound to torment him, anyway.

“Yeah,” Sylvain continued, resting his hands behind his head, “it’s small for me, too. But it’s not too bad. A good bath, and I knock out just the same. I could help you, if you wanted to bathe. Don’t want you falling on slick tile or anything, right?”

Dimitri turned his face away, head shaking. Not to Sylvain, of course. Sylvain doubted very much that Dimitri would _see_ him today.

“Okay, fine. Bath’s out. You’d probably catch a chill coming all the way back here, anyway.” Sylvain pressed his lips together. “How about a meal, then? Something to warm you up. Between this drafty building and that armor, you’ve gotta be freezing.”

Dimitri looked at him then, gaze cold. “Go away.”

Sylvain inhaled sharply. Dimitri looked at him like he was an enemy, not one of his closest friends since childhood. Not like Sylvain was a man who had nearly collapsed with relief when he realized Dimitri was alive. “Your Highness, I—”

“Leave.”

Sylvain sighed, running a hand through his hair. His fingers were trembling; that was new. He wasn’t afraid of Dimitri, not yet. So why was he trembling? “I . . . really am glad you’re alive.” He said, voice soft. “Is it so wrong that I want to keep you that way?”

Dimitri only glared.

“Alright.” Sylvain nodded, stepping back. He turned on his heel, waving a hand idly—like this hadn’t torn at his chest. “If you need anything, you know who to call for.”

As he stepped through the cathedral doors, he stepped into a land of flaming earth and air too hot to breathe. Sweat dripped down his face and soaked the clothes beneath his armor. Every movement was sluggish, miserable. It felt like it took every bit of energy he had to strike down his enemies, only for more to come.

This was a stupid plan. Whoever thought it was a good idea to send a bunch of Kingdom soldiers into the hottest place on the continent was stupid. He cursed Rodrigue and Byleth for coming up with this. He cursed the Goddess for putting it here in the first place. He cursed Lord Gwendal’s knights for their constant assault that gave him no chance to breathe.

He knew, though, that he couldn’t fall back, even though his battalion’s numbers had been depleted and he had already broken one of his lances. True, rest would let him maybe survive this battle; in exchange, Ingrid would fall victim to the archers that lingered just beyond the knight’s frontal assault.

Without rest, he knew all it would take was one mistake for him to fall.

And the mistake _did_ come. He wasn’t even the one who saw it; he could only tell from Ingrid’s shout—no, it was more a scream. It drew his attention away from the fortress knight he’d just incinerated, only to face a warrior and assassin both too close to avoid entirely. The warrior’s axe swung for his side, the assassin’s blade for his head. He wasn’t sure which would be worse.

But then the assassin was cleaved in two, and the warrior crumpled to the floor.

Sylvain barely could register what happened until Dimitri’s form was already retreating away, leaving only a trail of decimated knights behind him.

Logically, he knew Dimitri had only intervened because the knights were in the way. Sylvain had pushed along the most direct route to Lord Gwendal, ordered to keep the numbers occupied until they could regroup with Rodrigue. So of course Dimitri would tear through eventually, especially if Sylvain had taken too long to do his part.

Logic didn’t stop his heart from thrumming in his chest, or the flush brushing over his cheeks.

~☀~

Sylvain woke with a start, chest heaving and breaths painful. Sweat dripped down his forehead, all the nerves in his body alight. His side throbbed with every beat of his heart; his arm burned even where only air touched.

Frantic, his hand shot to the nightstand, fingers grasping desperately for a vial of medicine. His fingers smacked against the bowl of soup still lingering there from earlier. The ceramic shattered on the floor, liquid splashing across the stone. But he couldn’t care, not as his hand started to tremble with each failed search.

Gasping, Sylvain rolled onto his side, heedless of the pathetic whimper on his lips. In the limited light of the early evening, he could see the nightstand’s surface.

And he could see that it was empty.

He stared at the empty table, thinking that his mind was playing tricks on him. Then, hoping someone had heard the mess and would come to help him. Then, wishing that he’d studied faith magic more in the Academy.

But the pain wasn’t going away on its own. And no one was coming.

With a shaky exhale, he pushed himself to a sit. His side throbbed—of course it did—but he knew it would be worse in time. If he did nothing, it would be unbearable. He would become incoherent—and he couldn’t trust himself like that.

He counted his breaths, forcing them to slow and ease away from the clenching grasp of panic. If he kept his torso straight and didn’t twist, then he wouldn’t agitate his stitches or re-crack his ribs. If he put most of his weight on one leg and hugged the wall, then he wouldn’t risk making the sprain worse.

Besides, he only needed to find _one_ passerby. Just one person who could carry a message—who could get someone to bring him back to bed, and summon someone else to bring him medicine. He probably didn’t even need to get that far to do that.

He could do this.

With one final breath, he pushed himself up to his feet. If the pain had been bad before, it was a thousand times worse now. Every step was on trembling knees. Every minute motion forced him to swallow down acid. Sweat dripped down his temples, soaking into his shirt.

Sylvain stumbled across the room to the nearest wall, palms pressing against the stone. It was unforgiving as it caught him, but stable, reliable. Its chill was soothing as he pressed his forehead against it while he caught his breath. It was a blessing to have a sensation that wasn’t hurt.

He’d had worse. He could do this.

Swallowing, he straightened himself, looking to the doorway. With his good hand pressed against the stone, he stumbled his way across and out of his room.

To his surprise, the hall was empty. No one was hurrying down the hall to check on him, no candles flickered in the distance to insinuate an idle curiosity, no steps echoed in the hall for someone’s approach. There were no sounds whatsoever, actually, aside from that of his own heaving breaths.

Even if no one wasn’t coming for him, there should have at least been _someone_ around. Before, it always seemed like he was stumbling over servants, unable to find a single nook where he could be left to himself. If they weren’t actively attending him, they were hurrying between their chores, or talking amongst each other, or returning to their rooms. But now that he wanted them—no, _needed_ them—they were nowhere to be seen.

Sylvain glanced back into his room. There were two options.

He could go back to his bed and wait until someone came with his medicine. But, since the sun had fully set and night was settling in, that guaranteed him a night of agony. His peace would only come in the morning, when _someone_ remembered that there was a Margrave stuck in his room.

Alternatively, he could stumble his way down the hall until he ran into someone. It would only take one person to finally get the peace he needed. Sure, he risked hurting himself more, but the medicine would certainly dull that pain, too.

Licking his lips, Sylvain pressed his way further into the darkness of the hall.

Rationally, he knew that the hall wasn’t that long or empty. True, the Margrave’s quarters were far from those of the rest of the household; most rooms were left unoccupied for future spouses, lovers, and children. Guestrooms were confined to the opposite wing, and servants were kept downstairs.

But, still, one of his offices was in this wing, just near the end of the hall. It would require a servant’s attention to keep the room clean and organize his letters, keeping an eye for anything particularly significant. Even then, as it was his biggest and nicest office, Felix and Ingrid would likely be there, handling their work while he slept. There was really nowhere else that would comfortably house two lords.

It took agonizingly long to get even there. He had little doubt that his ankle had swollen, the area hot like the fire starting to burn in his chest. But he was there. The door to his office was slightly open, not closed enough to latch. If Ingrid was in there, she’d give him an earful; he’d certainly take her lecture if it meant he could sit in his chair for five minutes.

But the room was empty. There was no sign that his books and maps had been moved since the last time he was here. A small pile of letters sat in the middle of his desk right where he had left them, gathering dust like the rest of the broad surface. The fireplace in the corner was still clean from before he had left, when he wanted to avoid the potential of wind gusts scattering ash across his floor.

Not only had no one used this room recently; no one had even been inside.

Sylvain groaned, leaning against the doorframe. A piercing headache was starting to move in, jabbing at the back of his skull like a metronome. His legs were not only aching, but shaking now, the movement uncontrollable. Even his fingers trembled where they pressed against the stone.

This had been a failed venture. He was so close to the manor’s center here, so close to the stairwell that led to the bottom floor. If anyone else was on the top floor, he should have heard them. But there was no one.

His side throbbed as a reminder, forcing his hand immediately to his side. It did little to quell the agony as his fingers brushed over the bumps of stitches through his bandages. He couldn’t be sure if the bandages’ dampness was from sweat or from new blood. He didn’t even want to look to find out.

If it was another nightmare, then this was the cruellest one.

He exhaled slowly. If he _had_ made it worse, then he needed help now more than ever. If help required that he go downstairs, then so be it. He could hold onto the railing, crawl if he needed to.

Sylvain took a step toward the stairwell and his knees buckled beneath him. His shoulder slammed against the doorframe—slowing his fall but sending searing agony all through his arm. The burn felt like it was ablaze anew, throbbing as he crumpled to the floor.

Gasping, he pressed his head against the doorframe, trying to keep himself upright.

He just needed to rest. A small break, and he could get up again.

~☾~

Sylvain nibbled on his thumbnail, staring down at the map still spread on the war table. It wasn’t a _bad_ idea, per se. Fhirdiad was built with incredibly straightforward methodology; it wouldn’t take much to flank any defending forces. They could occupy the alleys with little effort, press forward steadily up to the castle’s doors.

The issue was that Fhirdiad had been under Cornelia’s control for years. Even if she could be outnumbered—and he wasn’t convinced that she was—she had enough magical prowess and tactical skill to handle it. She had convinced a nation to turn against their prince, then made them bow to the very nation that had attacked them. She wasn’t a fool; she was the sort of woman who could turn Fhirdiad’s weaknesses to her advantage.

Sylvain had enough faith to know that Byleth had already considered this. It could only explain why she was determined to pair up many of her units, to balance the fight with physical and magical generals working together. It would serve, at the very least, as a decent safeguard against surprises.

What he didn’t quite understand, though, was why she paired _him_ with Dimitri. True, Sylvain’s studies as a dark knight had awarded him some proficiency with magic. In theory, his skills were a decent foil to Dimitri’s pure physicality.

But surely she knew that Cornelia would be coming for Dimitri’s head as much as he was coming for hers. Cornelia’s lie about his execution was obvious now, but that didn’t mean the witch wouldn’t try to make it real. Dimitri would be targeted by the full force of her magic and that of her personal mages. He needed someone more skilled, like Annette or even Mercedes. They both knew how to counter magic, and they both knew how to heal Dimitri if they faltered.

Sylvain, at best, could only throw his body in front of Dimitri’s if he screwed up.

“What are you thinking?”

The deep voice snapped Sylvain from his thoughts, his gaze sliding to the rest of the room. The others had left a long time ago, already following their orders and making their preparations. No one had to think about it as much as Sylvain did.

That was, it seemed, except for Dimitri. The man looked at him, gaze firm and thoughtful.

Sylvain swallowed, trying to ignore the way his skin crawled—but not in an unpleasant way. It was more like the pleasantness of being _seen_ battled against the only consistent facet of his very nature. Sylvain stretched, resting his hands behind his head. “Just thinking there are better places for a date.”

Dimitri blinked.

Heat rushed to Sylvain’s face. Of all the covers he had, that had to be the stupidest one to come out of his mouth. “Just a joke. You know, since we’re paired up.”

“I see.” Dimitri’s gaze shifted back to the map, completely unaffected. “I thought perhaps you had the same concerns of the eastern front as I did.”

“Eh?”

“I realize it’s slightly out of our path, but if we claimed it quickly, we could prevent the reinforcements from the east. It may end the battle quicker, reducing the potential impact to Fhirdiad’s citizens. I’m unsure if that would hurt the Professor’s plans, though.”

Sylvain could only stare, caught in the way Dimitri’s gaze slid over the map, expression firm as he spoke. His hand brushed over each mark like they were as precious as the people they represented.

Dimitri’s eye fell back on Sylvain. “I take it that wasn’t what you had in mind.”

Sylvain swallowed, glancing back down at the map. “It’s, uh, just narrow here. Not sure if I should focus on covering your blind side, or ‘best defense is a good offense’, you know?”

“I trust you to cover me, however you need to.”

“You can always count on me, Your Highness.”

“I know.” Dimitri smiled, the expression fond in a way that made Sylvain’s heard thud in his chest. The effect lingered even as Dimitri turned away to leave the room. “Get some rest.”

Sylvain nodded, lips curled into a smile until Dimitri was well out of sight. As Dimitri’s footsteps faded, so too did the rapid thudding of his heart, replaced with a slow and dull ache.

This, Sylvain knew, was inevitable. As much as he hoped otherwise, he knew there was little chance that Dimitri would go from walking corpse to hopeless romantic. Instead, Dimitri had become immune to Sylvain’s teases and flirts. He’d become their future king in all ways. He had no time for such frivolity.

As a person, Sylvain knew he shouldn’t let himself cling to something when there was absolutely no change. Dimitri was better than him in all ways, even at his worst. As a knight, he knew it was inappropriate to even consider the possibilities. He should be fighting for his kingdom because it was his duty, not because he had a crush on its future king.

In theory, it was simple. All he had to do was wrap those feelings up and bury them as far away as possible in the back of his mind. There were a million other things back there, anyway. What was one more?

He sighed. Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d avoid this mess altogether by dying in a blaze of glory. There was still plenty of war left, after all.

~☀~

Sylvain blinked, his eyelids heavy and hardly cooperative. It did little to bring him to his senses, even his own thoughts sluggish. The pain hadn’t gone away, but it just felt distant, centered around the dim burning in his chest with every breath.

Nearer, it seemed, was the dull click of armor as someone stepped, and a pleasant coolness along his entire side. He was being carried, he realized—perhaps realized so slowly that it should have been concerning. But the hands were in odd places; one hand rested so low on his back it was nearly on his ass, and the other cradled just behind his knees. He was only balanced by the way his good shoulder was nestled in the crook of his savior’s.

It couldn’t have been easy, not this hold and not with the way that Sylvain wasn’t a light man.

But he wasn’t going to complain—even if he _could_ get his mouth to cooperate. Instead, he pressed his face against the cool metal, sighing contentedly.

Something passed his carrier’s lips, but by then Sylvain was already too far gone to register it.

~☾~

Sylvain couldn’t stop the way his hands shook as he looked up at the Adrestian Emperor. Or what was left of her, anyway. He knew that, at some point, she’d been a lovely woman—one he avoided flirting with only for fear of being poisoned—but he couldn’t even recall what she had looked like before. Not with the monster in front of him, a twisted combination of human and beast that made his skin crawl.

Worse, he was sure it would be a miracle if they survived this. Edelgard had been a formidable opponent normally; she could have been an army on her own, able to rival Dimitri. As a beast, he wasn’t certain she could be defeated without severe casualties.

He imagined that was why Byleth positioned her units the way she did. Most of the army was instructed to secure the palace and prevent reinforcements. Sylvain and Dedue were to secure the throne room, preventing the stray enemies from entering in case the army slipped. Byleth and Dimitri—undoubtedly the strongest in the Kingdom army—would handle Edelgard.

But things were hardly that simple. Many of their forces had to fall back after felling the innumerable amount of demonic beasts that Edelgard had under her control. Dedue had to keep his attention to the stairwells, where there were otherwise far too many opportunities for Edelgard’s reinforcements. Which meant Sylvain, left unmounted because of far too many stairs, was the only one left to keep the soldiers off Dimitri and Byleth.

Admittedly, he handled his job admirably. Soldiers barely made it into the door before his magic razed them off the face of the earth or his lance speared through them. He could feel the effects of his magic burning against his fingertips, but he didn’t hold back.

If there was anything he was ever going to take seriously, it would be this.

By the time he’d killed the last of Edelgard’s incoming supports, he was short on breath and his body was sluggish. Exhaustion tugged at his limbs, but he still had work to do. If anyone came in, he had to intervene before they could strike. Dimitri and Byleth couldn’t afford the distraction.

He glanced over to them—his body reacted before his mind could even fully register, footsteps loud as they slammed against stone with his every desperate step.

Dimitri had fallen back to close his wounds with a vulnerary, likely expecting the Professor to keep Edelgard distracted. But it was a feint; while Edelgard’s arms were indeed distracted by the Sword of the Creator, Sylvain could feel the thrum of magic, could see how the air crackled around Dimitri.

It was the same beam of light that had wiped out half their assaulting force, well before they had even known the cause.

He slammed against his king with all the force he could muster, the loud clash of their armors almost as satisfying as the certain bruise that would dominate his shoulder come morning.

He didn’t have enough time to smile to celebrate his victory; the air snapped around him like a whip. He didn’t feel the heat—so he wasn’t a dead man—but the sheer concussive force of the blast knocked him off his feet, slamming him into the nearest wall.

Sylvain groaned; the roaring in his head was louder than the roar of battle. Faintly, he could feel his heartbeat thudding in the back of his head, the cool drip of blood sliding down his neck. As he tried to blink away the static in his vision, the sensation of his heartbeat was replaced with a dull pain, a growing ache that slid into a near-migraine. If he only got out with a concussion, it would be a miracle.

He couldn’t focus on it long, though. No, a vice into his shoulders was pressing harder with every second, digging in like fangs into flesh. The blast must have fractured his armor, leaving him vulnerable to whatever the other soldiers couldn’t stop.

He had to get up; if the others had failed, then it left Dimitri and Byleth vulnerable. Whatever was after him—a beast of some sort, judging by the force—would only go after them when it was done playing around. His fingers reached for his lance, hoping to take advantage of its distraction, but it wasn’t there.

Sylvain’s eyes snapped open, forcing his body to focus. His glaze shot around desperately for his weapon, but it was nowhere on the stone around him. He had to get it—in this state, his magic was inaccurate and unreliable—he had to have a weapon in his hands to stop them. He had to keep fighting.

“Sylvain!” Sylvain’s head was snapped back sharply, only lulling forward when the sheer force on his shoulders allowed it.

He blinked again. It wasn’t a beast gnawing at his shoulders. Not exactly, anyway. He looked up, eyes catching that blue one that was agonizingly familiar.

“Hey, Your Highness.” Sylvain muttered, voice a little too rough for his own liking. “The Professor isn’t gonna like you slacking.”

Dimitri’s lips quirked into something almost amused. “It’s over. We won.”

“Oh.” Sylvain breathed. That was . . . concerning. Had he really been out for more than a few seconds?

He let his gaze shift just beyond Dimitri to the rest of the throne room. There were no Adrestian soldiers still alive, and a familiar red fabric lay in a pile just before the throne.

And, in front of him, blood was seeping through the armor in Dimitri’s shoulder.

Sylvain swallowed roughly. “You should get that looked at.”

Dimitri didn’t seem to hear him, his fingers instead pressing softly along the back of Sylvain’s scalp. “I need to get you to a healer.” He muttered.

Sylvain batted his hand away, forcing a smile on his lips. “I’ve been smacked harder than this.” He chuckled. With admittedly more effort than he would have liked, he forced himself to his feet. His mind spun and his stomach lurched, but he could ignore that. “See, no big deal.”

Dimitri looked up at him, gaze piercing. If he saw through Sylvain, though, he didn’t mention it. Instead, he pulled himself to his feet, looking down at his old friend with an almost unbearably-bright smile.

The way it made Sylvain’s chest tighten made him wonder just how far he could get before he really _did_ get sick.

~☀~

Sylvain blinked himself awake, unfortunately feeling no different than his dream. His body shook uncontrollably, even though he knew he was under the weight of at least three blankets. Every injury hurt, even those that had been healed ages ago. Worse, even though his whole body was cold, his face was uncontrollably hot and sweating, like he’d decided to sit in the Academy’s sauna for a day. Already a dull throb was lingering behind his eyes, threatening far worse in the coming hours.

A familiar drawl made the pounding only worse. “He’s awake.”

“Sylvain?” Ingrid came into his vision rapidly, the movement so quick that it turned his stomach. “Can you hear me?”

Sylvain considered nodding, but quickly rethought that for the sake of his stomach. “Yeah.”

“Good.” Ingrid’s lips curled into a smile, the expression so soft and serene that he was certain he wasn’t still alive and had actually died—and had somehow made it into a paradise full of very Ingrid-like angels.

But then the expression shifted into something angry and harsh and unforgiving, and Sylvain’s stomach sank.

“What do you think you were _doing_?” She yelled, each word like a hammer in his skull. “Do you have a death wish?”

Sylvain’s groan was very nearly a whimper. He rubbed at his eyes, hoping it would placate the headache, but it only seemed to make it worse. “Please stop yelling.”

“I’ll stop yelling when you stop being an idiot! What were you _thinking_?”

Sylvain looked away to try and escape her wrath, but that was no help, either. Felix sat at his bedside, arms crossed and expression flat. Unfortunately, it was a face that Sylvain knew only too well; it was a barely-concealed rage, reserved seemingly only for Sylvain when he decided to be the biggest disappointment in Felix’s life.

And he wasn’t sure if he could take pain, exhaustion, and their furied exasperation all at the same time.

“I dunno.” He muttered, wishing he could just disappear. “Just wanted to take a walk, I guess.”

To avoid Ingrid’s glare, his eyes slid back to his nightstand. There was no soup there; mercifully, and someone had placed a new bottle of medicine on the table. With a slowness that was unbearably painful on its own, he took it in hand, toying with it as though there was even the slimmest chance that he’d forego it.

He couldn’t, however, hide how quickly he downed it.

Ingrid sighed, her every word laden with exhaustion. “I can’t understand you. You don’t want to be babied, but you do things like _this_.”

Sylvain shrugged, burying himself more into his blankets. The last time he’d been this cold, he was trapped three feet in snow, not confined to arguably the most comfortable room in the entire Gautier territory.

“Sylvain,” the tension in Ingrid’s shoulders were perhaps too visible, even as she draped a cool rag over his forehead, “honestly. Why would you do this?”

“Dunno.” He muttered, licking at the taste of medicine still lingering on his lips. It was taking far too long to work this time, even with the cloth’s attempts to reduce his fever. The only real escape would be sleep. “Tired of bed.”

“Tch.” Felix’s rage was still contained, but only barely. “You could have torn something, if you kept going. Do you want to be stuck here forever?”

Sylvain laughed, the sound short and harsh and painfully sincere. “I will be, anyway. So what’s the problem?”

Even in his state, he didn’t miss the way both his friends stilled, bodies stiff like they’d never heard him so bitter before. Perhaps they hadn’t; so much of his ire had been contained to their Professor when their relationship had been at its worst, or perhaps his father when the man had finally arrived at his deathbed.

But that wasn’t what the looks on their faces said. It wasn’t just surprise, but confusion. They looked at him like the concept was so foreign that he must have spoken in an entirely different language.

Well, if Sylvain wanted to sleep, they only needed to go away. And this seemed an easy enough way to manage that.

A smile slid onto his face, cruel in its sweetness. “Oh? You guys never thought about that, huh?”

Ingrid’s expression looked pinched. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s pretty obvious.” Sylvain’s shrug was casual, careless. “You two get to pursue the dreams and lives you’ve wanted since you were kids. No one’s gonna stop you, Ingrid, from becoming a full knight. I think His Majesty would be insulted if you didn’t. No one—not even your father and his hundred best men—can stop the two of you there.”

“Sylvain.” Felix warned, eyes narrowing.

“You’re in the same boat.” Sylvain accused, though his tone was light and playful. “You’re the Shield you’ve always wanted to be since you were a kid. No, a better one. I think His Majesty trusts you and your opinion more than anyone else—probably because you were so brutally honest to him when we were teens. I mean _I’d_ say you were an ass, but to each their tastes.”

Ingrid’s voice was unsteady. “But you—”

“I have to stay here.” Sylvain sighed, head pressing back against his pillow. “It doesn’t matter if I get the agreement with Sreng or not. There will always be someone in the North who hates us, who wants to hurt the Kingdom. So,” he closed his eyes, the very thought like a blade in his chest, “to keep _your_ dreams intact, the Lance has to stay here. I have to stay here. If not to wield the Lance myself, then to plant a bunch of little Crest-bearing, Lance-wielding redheads everywhere.”

When he opened his eyes again, both were staring at him, expressions more open than they had been in years. Maybe it was time that he was actually honest with them. Maybe it was time he stopped letting them think that everything would be perfect just because the war ended.

“I don’t blame you.” He said, actually honest. He blamed his father, Crests, sometimes even Miklan. But he never blamed them. “I really don’t. But . . . don’t assume I get the same freedoms you do. I don’t get to leave Gautier.”

Ingrid swallowed. “But even the last Margrave left for the occasional council with the king.”

Sylvain snorted. “Even if you didn’t count me not being there—thanks for noticing, by the way—my father hadn’t attended for over a decade. He only ever sent representatives when the situation was _really_ important. You know, if it actually could affect Gautier.” He sighed. “I’ll have to follow the same model, just so the bandits and extremists don’t start getting bold every time I’m gone.”

Ingrid looked away. “You can’t just—”

“You won’t miss me. Promise.” Sylvain grinned. “You might _prefer_ it actually. Felix doesn’t have to deal with me being an insufferable, insatiable bother. And you don’t have to cover for any of my messes if they’re all here.”

“That’s _enough_!” Felix stood with such force and intensity that it sent his chair clattering across the floor. His face was red, eyes practically shining with his fury. “You utter—”

“Felix!” Ingrid’s shout cut through his argument, her hand gripping tightly onto Felix’s arm. Felix turned to snap at her, but her glare was as firm as her grip, forcing his mouth shut.

She pulled Felix along, practically dragging him out of the room. When pulling began to falter, she resorted to shoving.

As they stepped through the doorway, she fixed Sylvain with a sad look. “We’ll talk when you feel better.”

Sylvain waved at them like he was just a teen again forced to study after class. “I look forward to it.”

The door barely shut all the way before he could hear the two of them yelling on the other side. Felix was a right fury, and Ingrid barely a containing force with her own shouts.

But Sylvain didn’t care to listen. All he had wanted was the moment to be alone, to dream away the inevitable fate in front of him. If he had lost his dearest friends in the process, then so be it. It wasn’t like life would let him have them for long, anyway. Not out here, in the land of ice and solitude.

~☾~

For all reasons, Fhirdiad’s celebration was outstanding. Outside the castle, people had arrived in droves to greet the king’s homecoming procession. They cheered and chanted, energy renewed with the breath of new hope. The town had been wounded by years of war and poverty, but they would heal. And their exuberant greeting indicated just how ready they were for it.

Inside the castle, the celebration was just as lively. The ballroom had been damaged rather significantly by Cordelia’s spite, but it did little to dampen the celebrants’ spirits. Soldiers laughed and danced together, movements often as uncoordinated as that of the impromptu musicians. Some chatted casually with nobles, many earning themselves high positions with their valor. Others feasted upon the impressive spread of food, many of whom had endured hunger for far too long with their limited rations. Others snuck away some baked goods, probably to present to those still recovering in the temporary medical wing of the castle.

Between all of them, one thing was consistent: exuberant smiles from people so glad that the war and death was over.

Perhaps that was why Sylvain couldn’t bring himself to enjoy this celebration with them. With Adrestia defeated, it was true that much of the bloodshed was done for them. They could breathe easy, feel free in a way that their obligations hadn’t allowed for almost six years.

But Sylvain wasn’t as lucky. He’d find himself in battle again, soon. Sreng would certainly try to take advantage of the war, marching on Gautier with the expectation of an easy victory. It wasn’t even a possibility; the letter in his pocket confirmed that much. Sreng was moving, and he’d have to be at his best.

He sighed, leaning against one of the pillars at the edge of the room. Before, he used to be bitter about this. Used to loathe the fact that everyone else could enjoy themselves, and that his luxuries forever ended the moment his days at the Academy came to an end.

But it was hard to feel that way now. He couldn’t be angry when his dearest friends got to smile freely, enjoying the fruits of their labor.

He inhaled slowly, scanning the room for something that would ease the ache left by the letter burning in his pocket.

There was Felix and Ingrid, both arguing vehemently at the edge of the room. Knowing her, she had locked the training grounds so Felix couldn’t sneak away. Knowing him, he had tried anyway. They’d probably have a spar late into the night just so he wouldn’t sulk about it.

Then there was Mercedes and Annette, both hovering about the dessert table. Annette chattered endlessly about the desserts Mercedes and Dedue had made, fawning over each and every pastry like it was a treasure. Mercedes took each compliment in stride, a soft smile on her face as she nibbled on some of her hard work.

Further away, Ashe was speaking with Dedue. Neither seemed particularly interested in the celebration, but their quiet shattered when Ashe’s siblings forced themselves into the conversation, far more demanding than the nearby nobles could manage. Ashe’s blush was so luminescent that Sylvain could see it from his perch. It was good that Ashe and Dedue weren’t being allowed to minimize their contributions entirely.

And then there was Dimitri, so much the focal point of the celebration that he was impossible to miss, no matter how much Sylvain tried. The man was decked out in his full regalia, every inch a king—bright and glorious. Beside him, the new Archbishop was just as radiant, her muted smile as stunning as if she’d been smiling in full. Dimitri seemed to hang on her every word, his smiles so soft when it came to addressing her. Even in a crowd of people admiring their king—the _Savior_ King—she was the center of his attention, and she seemed to thrive in it.

Watching it for too long made it hard to breathe.

He looked away, catching himself under Mercedes’ knowing stare. They’d talked about it before, so long ago that it was like a distant memory. She was the only one he could trust not to judge him. She was the only one who understood when he said that—for his own sanity, not just for the Kingdom—he couldn’t stay here for long.

She had understood enough to give him supplies for his journey home, including some healing herbs she was certain Gautier didn’t readily have.

“Sir Gautier?” A girl’s voice caught his attention, bringing him back to the present.

“Hm?” He glanced over with a smile, hardly surprised to see a couple people standing there for his attention. Half of his battalion had already asked for his attention this night; it was hardly any surprise that the rest would, too. People always mistook their admiration for affection.

“I was wondering if I could ask for a dance.” The girl continued, cheeks pink.

He smiled sweetly. “Sorry, I wish I could. Doctor’s orders, though. Shouldn’t move too much with a concussion.” Of course, he neglected to mention that Mercedes had insisted the instruction was merely precautionary, and that he was almost entirely healed. But still, it was a damn good excuse.

“Oh.” The girl blinked, lips pressed together. “Then perhaps we could merely—”

“I appreciate your kindness.” Sylvain said, shifting his weight slightly. “Please, don’t let me ruin your night. I’m sure there’s a hundred men who would vie for the _honor_ of dancing with you.”

Her flush deepened, her nod perhaps a little too fervent for the clear rejection. “Of course. Please have a pleasant night, Sir Gautier.”

Sylvain watched as the two people stepped away. It was hardly a surprise that they chose to dance with each other, the man looking utterly delighted that he’d been allowed the opportunity. Well, there _was_ that old saying about the loveless being the best matchmakers.

He sighed, pressing more of his weight into the pillar. It was stupid coming here. All he was doing was making an appearance, biding his time until it was acceptable to leave. By now, most of the partygoers were at least a little buzzed, or so absorbed in their own entertainment that they wouldn’t notice if one noble disappeared.

Besides, he had a long ride ahead of him tomorrow. If he retired early, then he could rise before the sun. With his gear already prepared, he wouldn’t need to linger for long. He’d be gone before anyone was even awake enough to be hungover.

“I’m surprised you aren’t out there dancing.” The deep voice sent a shiver up Sylvain’s spine, and not a wholly unpleasant one. “It’s unlike you to avoid festivities.”

Sylvain swallowed, mentally clamping down on the stupid thoughts that buzzed in his head. If he could get his heart to stop pounding so hard at the smallest word, that would be good, too. “You know me,” he said, shrugging, “hardly have the stamina to go for long. Couldn’t keep up if I tried.”

“I suppose that is a good thing.” Dimitri mused, tilting his head. “Else I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to speak with you.”

“Oh, Your Majesty,” Sylvain left his tone playful, wishing he could just rip out his own heart and throw it across the room, “are you jealous?”

It was stupid to think that it was anything more than a king conversing with his vassals. Nobles did it all the time, just to keep relationships level. Dimitri’s position was no different.

Dimitri looked thoughtful, something fond in his expression. “Something like that.”

Sylvain needed a distraction for his own sanity. “You know, I haven’t seen you dance, either. Can’t call me out if you’re just as guilty.”

“Ah, yes, I suppose you’re right.” Dimitri looked away as he ducked his head sheepishly, the movement giving Sylvain a chance to catch his breath. “If you recall, I have two left feet. And the years were unkind to my practice.”

“What a shame.” Sylvain sighed dramatically.

“What is?”

“If I hadn’t been playing up my injury, I would have danced with you. I don’t mind broken toes.”

Dimitri looked puzzled. “Why is that?” He hardly let Sylvain open his mouth in time to explain the jest before he continued. “Why would you speak of an injury you don’t have?”

Sylvain grimaced internally; there was at least one pitfall to letting Dimitri escort him to the healer’s tents. It seemed that was his punishment for a brief indulgence.

“You know me,” Sylvain said, exhaling sharply, “I take too much attention. Wanted to make sure you got the chance to enjoy your own party.”

Dimitri crossed his arms. “This celebration is for everyone. Yourself included.”

No, it wasn’t. Parties were to signify an end. And, with Sylvain, there was none. No end to the fighting. No end to the pointless pining for his king. Just eternal, unforgiving torture.

A part of him wanted to say as much. To emphasize it with the fact that he was leaving come morning. But Gautier was Dimitri’s territory as much as it was Sylvain’s. There was no reason for both to suffer from its reality, not when Dimitri needed this celebration more than anyone else.

“Don’t tell me I’m being a buzzkill.” Sylvain said instead, offering a sheepish smile. “Is that why you came to talk to me? I mean, I can go back to philandering, if you want. Ingrid will tear my ear off but, frankly, I think she enjoys it, so.”

“No.” Dimitri tried to hide a laugh, shaking his head with a bit too much enthusiasm. “I merely wished to speak with you. I,” he glanced away, smile shifting into something adorably uncertain, “I wanted you to know that you usually look effortlessly wonderful, but it appears more so tonight.”

Sylvain blinked, slightly caught off-guard. “Huh?”

“I assume it is due to your general presence, and not entirely your appearance,” Dimitri continued, seemingly unfazed, “as it has been like this since we were children. You’ve always been affable and reliable—and it’s something I’ve begun to depend on greatly.”

[Artist Source (Spec)](https://twitter.com/Spectralsoups)

Sylvain paused, mind working almost as fast as his heart thudded in his chest. It was rare for Dimitri to speak to him, let alone to—to flirt with him! It was an anomaly, an absurdity, a—

Everything slowed as it clicked into place. Of course.

“Oh, that’s _very_ charming.“ Sylvain said, his smile sweet. Knowing Dimitri, he’d probably made himself uncomfortable trying to please the Professor, and needed some encouragement. “I didn’t know you’ve been practicing. It’s been ages since we had that lesson, right?”

Even now, he could still see them in his bedroom, Dimitri’s face flushed crimson from Sylvain’s tactless presentation.

Dimitri faltered, his already delicate confidence unfortunately seeming to shatter. “Ah, yes. It has.”

That was no good. He’d never get a girl if he stumbled at every step. He just needed a little boost.

“You know,” Sylvain mused, “you’re not too bad. You could try that on any girl and I’m certain she’d fall head over heels for you.” His gaze flicked to the Professor, where Dimitri’s eye instinctively followed.

There was something tight in Dimitri’s expression, even though he was still smiling. Perhaps it was nervousness, a sheer lack of trust in his own skills when it came to approaching the Professor. Of course, if it _was_ her on the king’s mind, she’d find his awkwardness as charming as Sylvain did.

“I suppose I’ve taken enough of your time.” Dimitri said, his voice soft.

“Don’t let me keep you.” Sylvain replied, hardly surprised at how tired Dimitri sounded. After all, everyone but him could leave whenever they wanted. He’d likely be expected to stay until the last person retired, or until the rooster called in the morning.

Dimitri bowed his head slightly before disappearing back into the crowd.

~☀~

Sylvain’s waking, this time, wasn’t as miserable as the last.

True, his body still hurt, but at least it was restrained to his actual injuries. And those pains had been rendered rather tame by the potent effects of his medicine. It allowed him to curl on his side in his sleep, pulling his covers over his head. It was hot, and made sweat drip from his temples, but it kept the outer world away. Besides, he couldn’t complain with the headache gone.

The peace, however, was short-lived. Whispers crept into his shelter like they were snakes, each word threatening to bite him. He tried to still himself—to avoid the natural twitch—just to allow himself a momentarily longer peace.

“Did you know?” Ingrid asked, her voice soft.

She earned only a grunt in response.

“ _Felix_.”

Felix huffed, the sound harsh and annoyed. No doubt he looked like a right fury, eyebrows all scrunched together and face red. “Fine. No. I _didn’t_.” There was the slight shifting of fabric as he moved. “He’s always smiled about everything like an idiot. I thought he was just—”

“—thought he was just being Sylvain, right?” Ingrid sighed.

She earned another grunt.

“I thought he would be happier out here. Away from me nagging him all the time, getting to do—to—”

“You expected him to woo every girl in Gautier. Slack on his duties here. Everything you used to yell at him about.” Felix sighed again. “I did, too.”

Silence settled uneasily between them, forcing Sylvain’s fingers to dig tighter into his sheets. He’d been an idiot. He came out here without a fuss because he didn’t want them to worry, didn’t want them to bear any more than what their duties already required. Instead, he had ruined it—destroyed his efforts for a rest that had been unsatisfactory at best.

“How long do you think it’s been like this?” Ingrid asked, her soft voice tearing into the silence.

She didn’t receive a response.

Sylvain pressed his face against his pillow. The answer was obvious enough, wasn’t it? His fate had been determined for him the second his Crest manifested. It had been ingrained into the lessons his parents taught him, reinforced by his brother’s hatred. He’d loathed it, but there was no way of escaping the shackles in his blood.

True, he had mocked it in his youth, spited it at every turn. If he was inevitably to be the Margrave, the man with the blood-soaked Lance of Ruin, then it didn’t matter what happened beforehand. It wasn’t like his reputation mattered at all. He could be insincere, intolerable, and unreliable. It didn’t matter if he excelled academically or in the field. He could play all he wanted—perhaps even excessively to make up for the utter lack of freedom in his future.

There was something both satisfying and devastating about being right.

A soft knock broke him from his thoughts. Wood brushed against stone, accompanied rapidly by the most delightful smell. It was better than anything he could care to remember.

Flawless timing, really. If he played ignorant, then he could pretend like nothing ever happened. It used to work when he was a kid; there was no reason it wouldn’t work now.

“That smells really good.” He muttered, pulling the sheet down from his eyes so he could peek over it.

To his surprise, it wasn’t one of his servants trying to bribe him with food. No, it was Dedue, standing tall and magnificent with a bowl of steaming food in his hands. Even now, though, so far away from Fhirdiad, he dressed like he was still at Dimitri’s side—like there was any chance Dimitri would be judged for any of Dedue’s slips in Gautier.

Dedue’s lip curled up just at the edge, a pleasant smile that Sylvain was always grateful to see. “I assumed you wished for something more substantial than broth.” He said, tone level. “That is, if you can keep it down.”

Sylvain shifted to sit up, wincing slightly at the small agitation in his side. “Won’t know till I try, right?”

Dedue nodded, stepping to the side opposite of Ingrid and Felix. Sylvain wanted to kiss him—the man’s position gave him ample opportunity to ignore the looks on his friends’ faces. He could feel their gaze on the back of his head; he didn’t want much more than that.

The smell of the dish was even more wonderful once the bowl was in Sylvain’s lap. It took all the patience he had to eat it slowly, taking his time to chew thoroughly. The flavor was full, the textures so perfect together that it almost brought tears to his eyes. If this was his last meal, he’d probably die happy.

“You never taught me this one.” Sylvain hummed around a mouthful of food, his smile wide. “You’ve been holding out.”

Dedue shook his head, the motion more of amusement than disagreement. “Perhaps when you are able to stand on your own.”

“It’s a deal, then.”

Contrary to his hopes: the more he ate, the more uncomfortable he became. He couldn’t ignore Ingrid’s and Felix’s stares forever; they didn’t speak, but they broke into his illusion of an empty room with every sigh and every movement. He knew they were watching him; he could see it just at the edge of his vision, feel it like spiders crawling up his spine.

He used to _love_ attention, good and bad. But that was always by his own design, a product of his own knowing behaviors. This was different; they knew he didn’t want their attention and sympathy, and yet they thrust it upon him all the same.

Maybe he was only imagining it. Maybe it was because he was the oldest—he was the one who was supposed to bear all the burdens so they didn’t have to. He was the one who was supposed to do it with a smile, so they never had to know. And he’d royally screwed that one up.

But there was no taking back what he’d done.

“I hope you do not mind,” Dedue said, his voice taming Sylvain’s thoughts rather than shattering through them, “but I need to speak with Ingrid and Felix for a moment.”

Sylvain took another bite, letting the taste linger on his tongue as he pretended to consider it. “By all means.”

Neither of his childhood friends seemed inclined to follow, even as Dedue stepped to the door. Ingrid kept looking at him like she expected Sylvain to reveal that he was joking; Felix kept looking at him like he thought Sylvain would vanish if he took his eyes off him. But Sylvain was unbudging, continuing his meal like he hadn’t a care in the world.

And so, reluctantly, they left his side.

This time, there was no yelling behind the closed door. Quite possibly, Dedue had expected their rage, wishing to take them as far away from Sylvain as possible to reduce their impact. That was, if they would even let him; Sylvain knew their relationships were barely stable, too much undue resentment nearly obliterating any chance for a stable relationship. It was better now, it _had_ to be, but that didn’t mean they would follow Dedue far if it left Sylvain much opportunity to misbehave.

Not that he would blame them. If it weren’t for Dedue’s food making him pleasantly lethargic, he’d certainly have tried to scurry off one more. Of course, that would just get him into the same trouble—stuck in a place without medicine, hurting himself until he collapsed. The benefits were hardly worth the misery.

Sylvain’s gaze flicked to the door as it opened once more, mentally preparing himself for the worst. But it was only Dedue this time, his expression as impassive as ever.

Which left plenty of space for Sylvain to get nosy. He nibbled on his spoon, his smile wry. “So, who else should I expect to come out of the woodwork?” He teased. “Did you all just leave Dimitri on his own at the Capitol?”

Dedue shook his head, his gaze flicking to the nearly-emptied bowl. “No.”

“I suppose that would be rather silly, wouldn’t it?” Sylvain mused, glancing out the window. While Dimitri was certainly quite capable, there was no chance that he wouldn’t have his royal guard on constant watch. Even then, if they failed, it was certain that Ashe would shoot any attackers down before they even had a chance to _look_ at their king.

He glanced back at Dedue, smile shifting to something soft. “They treating you alright back there?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

“Never better.” He flashed a grin. “I almost stay out of trouble.”

Dedue nodded, his expression still undecipherable. The man was perceptive—Sylvain knew that—but his lack of expressiveness always made it hard to determine his aptitude. At the very least, then, Sylvain could be grateful that he said nothing; it would be _far_ worse to get lectured by Dedue.

When Sylvain was done eating, Dedue took the bowl. He glanced to the door like he considered leaving, but spoke instead. “His Majesty was worried about you.”

“He should know better.” Sylvain mused, letting himself fall back into his pillows. “We all knew I was gonna cause some sort of trouble up here. Frankly, this was a best-case scenario.”

“Even so.”

“He has more important things to worry about than me.”

~☾~

His horse nosed at his shoulder, demanding affection even this early in the morning. He couldn’t really blame her; the other horses were still sleeping soundly, unbothered by his movements as he readied his horse and filled her saddlebags with his supplies. They’d have to ride hard today if they had any hope of making it to Gautier in a timely manner. If they were lucky, they could make it back to the manor late into the night.

Frankly, a little affection wasn’t too much of a price to ask for.

He stroked her face and neck, whispering small affections to her. “I know,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to her nose, “I’m not looking forward to it, either.”

The letter had been clear; Srengi forces were moving quickly, expected to reach the border within a few days. While the Margrave could hold them off for a short time, they needed the Lance to fend Sreng off fully.

If Sreng was arriving at the soonest estimated time, then Sylvain only had a couple days before his father’s remaining forces would falter and crack under the assault. True, the Margrave had kept his best units, but they were used to the presence of the Lance of Ruin. Their formations would crumble without its presence.

Which meant he didn’t have much time to linger. With a sigh, he turned to grab the Lance—and froze in place.

There, just at the entrance to the stall, was Dimitri. He was dressed rather casually—a grand risk considering that it hadn’t been that long since they reclaimed Fhirdiad—his clothes a horribly wrinkled mess. Even his hair was a disaster, the long strands sticking out every direction. It looked like he had just risen from bed and thrown on the nearest clothes, only to come to the stables so far from his room.

It was bizarre; but it wasn’t the first time DImitri had done something utterly strange when he couldn’t sleep. Perhaps he had hoped an early ride would help shake the lingering nightmares.

“You’re leaving.” Dimitri muttered, expression unreadable as he leaned against the wood of the stall. He crossed his arms, the gesture both casual and remarkably defensive. Sylvain didn’t miss that Dimitri was trying to block him in with his broad frame.

“Yep.” Sylvain turned his attention back to the saddle, making sure it was secured properly.

“Without saying anything?”

“You know how it is.” Sylvain swallowed. “Gautier needs its Lance to protect it.”

Dimitri’s hand settled on his shoulder, the weight light but still feeling like a needle pinning him to a board. “You should take the time to rest. There’s no reason to rush off.”

Sylvain sighed, rubbing his face. Without a word, he grabbed Dimitri’s wrist, pulled his arm off his shoulder, reached into his pocket, pulled out the crumbled letter, and forced it into Dimitri’s hand. With that, he turned away, closing the clasp on the saddlebag.

His horse looked at him, eyes accusatory, like even _she_ knew better than to treat the king that way. That, or she already knew the amount of work ahead of her and was berating him for it.

“No rest for the wicked.” Sylvain sighed, petting her mane.

Paper crinkled behind him as Dimitri sighed. “If only there were a means to . . . improve our relationships.”

Damn him. It wasn’t fair that he was so keen to what would help this country, and yet so oblivious to how desperately Sylvain desired it. It wasn’t fair that he could stand there with so much determined focus, ignorant to how his words kept breaking through the cage where Sylvain had locked his affections.

“The Margrave would hate that.” Sylvain muttered, trying to keep his tone level. “He’d eat the Lance before he’d ever make a treaty with them.”

A pause. “I’ve heard he is to retire soon.”

“Yeah.” It was hardly a rumor. The stress of the war had certainly taken its toll on Sylvain’s father, as had the impossibly difficult winters. He’d be forced to retire soon, if only to keep Gautier under a functioning leader. That was, if he didn’t get killed by illness first.

Sylvain didn’t doubt that his father would throw himself into a losing battle just to avoid the indignity of such an ignoble death. He was probably thrilled about this Srengi incursion.

“So,” Dimitri paused, as if he were considering his words, “it would be what _you_ were willing to do.”

Sylvain shrugged, leading his horse from the stall. “Whatever His Majesty desires.”

Dimitri fixed him with a look, and Sylvain couldn’t help a laugh.

“Maybe if I make it through this battle.” He said, mounting his horse with unnecessary flourish. “I’ll see if they’re up to a treaty.”

“Thank you.” Dimitri said, stepping closer to place his hand on his horse’s harness. “I would—I think we would prefer if we didn’t have to worry about you so much.”

“Come on, Your Majesty.” Sylvain smiled, nudging his horse along. He watched Dimitri keep step with her. “If I’m not kept busy, then I’ll get into trouble.”

Dimitri glanced away, pausing once they’d left the stables. Sylvain’s horse, traitor that she was, stopped alongside him. “About that . . .”

“Yeah?”

“Hm.” Dimitri glanced out toward the horizon, toward Gautier. “Never mind. I think it best for another time. Perhaps when you return to Fhirdiad, we can talk.”

Sylvain’s lip stuck out in a pout. “You can’t tell me whatever it is now? Might be a while till I get to come back.”

Dimitri merely shook his head.

That didn’t bode well. If he wasn’t saying it now, then it meant that Dimitri was afraid it would affect his performance on the border—that it was something Sylvain would hate, or that he’d be afraid of. Likewise, it had to be something that would keep him out of trouble.

That narrowed it down to one of two things. One, Dimitri wanted Sylvain to take on the Margravate early. Or two, Dimitri wanted Sylvain to settle down and begin a proper legacy. The former was inevitable; both had to know that the Margravate would fall into Sylvain’s hands within the next five years. Which meant that Dimitri could only be referring to the latter.

Sylvain’s fingers curled around the reins, his smile forced. “Rather suspicious, Your Majesty.” He said, tone forced playful. “I might swoon off my horse if it’s a confession of love.”

Dimitri frowned at him in a way that rivalled Ingrid’s scowl. “When you return.”

“So stubborn.” Sylvain sighed, clicking his tongue. “Alright, then. When I come back to Fhirdiad.”

Seemed straightforward enough. He could bide his time, waiting for the day when he’d finally quashed his feelings for Dimitri. By then, he’d be older, lonelier, and desperate—probably willing to accept the last vestiges of his fate and accept whatever wife Dimitri recommended. Or, perhaps, it would be so long that Dimitri eventually forgot, entirely overwhelmed by the demands of governance. Preferably, though, Sylvain would be so busy that he’d never return to Fhirdiad at all, and he’d be able to avoid this entirely.

~☀~

Sylvain woke to the sound of splashing water, a loud thud, and displeased grunts.

“ _Felix_!” Ingrid hissed, voice barely above a whisper. “Be _careful!_ ”

She earned only a huff in response, probably because Felix didn’t know how to whisper when he was annoyed. Not that the sounds he made could be considered quiet in any capacity.

With a small sigh, Sylvain rubbed his eyes, trying to blink himself back into focus. The sun was already high in the sky, the rays bearing down on him as if it would not tolerate the audacity of sleeping in further. Admittedly, he’d slept deeper than he had in a while; it was long enough for his medicine to start losing its potency, but not quite enough for him to take another dose.

Just at his bedside, he saw his two friends glaring at each other over a half-filled water basin—likely only half-filled because the other half was soaking his floor. They hadn’t even noticed he was awake, yet.

“So, um,” Sylvain winced at how violently the two flinched, “what are you doing?”

Ingrid straightened first, though she didn’t look at him. Her gaze was too focused on the water that pooled around her boots. “You’ve . . . had a few fevers recently.”

Sylvain blinked. “Uh huh.”

“So I thought,” she brought her hands together, fingers fidgeting in a way that she hadn’t done since she was a child, “you might want your hair washed to get the sweat out.”

Ah. Sylvain glanced over at Felix, who was equally as disinclined as Ingrid to maintain any eye contact. Neither of them were particularly subtle. And he very much doubted that Dedue would save him this time. “Don’t worry about it.”

She twitched. “But—”

“Look.” Sylvain rubbed his face. It was better to just get this over with. “I know what you’re doing. And you don’t have to. I shouldn’t have snapped at you or said what I did. I’m sorry.”

She looked up then, expression tight and not at all what he wanted. “I can’t just ignore what you said and pretend nothing happened.”

“You should.” Sylvain shrugged, smiling sweetly. “I was just being an ass. Wanted to be left alone, so I said things I didn’t mean.”

Felix glanced up at him this time, expression far more severe than Ingrid’s. “Don’t lie to us.”

That was fair enough. “Alright, alright. I’ll behave in the future. Promise.”

“We’re not stupid.” Felix’s arms crossed tightly against his chest. “You weren’t lying about . . . this. About you and Gautier.”

Sylvain sighed, shifting to sit more upright. He needed to look almost proper to be any sort of convincing. “Look. It’s not like it’s any different from you guys, really.”

Felix fixed him with a glare.

This was a bother. It was a lot harder to convince others if he couldn’t even dream of convincing himself. A part of him wanted to just send them away again—and perhaps this time they’d never return—but he wasn’t sure if he could live with himself after that.

He rubbed the back of his head, letting a lazy smile fall on his lips. “Think about it. Eventually, Count Galatea will start pressuring Ingrid again if the territory starts to struggle. And we all know Felix would rather be roaming the country, fighting every bandit he could get his hands on, than be stuck with all this paperwork and responsibility. And here I am being dramatic because I get to stay home, live in luxury, and occasionally have to earn my keep.”

“But you don’t get to leave.” Ingrid said, voice soft.

“Who needs to leave? There are plenty of pretty girls in Gautier to keep me occupied.”

Felix sneered. “You—” He was quick to stop himself, even without Ingrid’s warning glare, running a hand over his face.

He didn’t have to say it. Sylvain knew they weren’t convinced. He could be called a liar, an idiot, a jerk, and they’d all be right. “Really, guys, I—”

Felix looked away, glaring out the window. “You’re right.” He huffed.

Ingrid looked appalled. “You can’t be serious.”

“He’s right.” Felix continued, eyes focused on something in the grounds below. “I hate not getting to train as much as I’d like. I hate the paperwork. I hate that Dimitri thinks I should care about whatever the nobles are sniveling about this time.”

That . . . wasn’t what Sylvain was going for. “Wait—”

“I could use the break.” Felix glanced back, a smirk on his lips. “Perhaps I will stay here in the winter.”

Sylvain blinked. “What.”

“It’s been Fhirdiad or Fraldarius. Fhirdiad is infuriating, and Fraldarius is empty. Your training ground is better maintained and your knights are more skilled. They might actually prove interesting opponents.” He shrugged. “Gautier is at least close enough to both that I can return if there’s any issue.”

“Felix, you seriously can’t—”

“Actually,” Ingrid muttered, her knuckles tapping at her chin, “I was thinking of visiting in the summer.”

Sylvain blanched. “Ingrid, don’t—”

“You’re right.” She said, expression thoughtful. “I’ve noticed it more frequently, but my father is constantly inviting old ‘friends’ over, now that our harvest has improved. I don’t doubt he thinks I’ll fall for one of them. And summer is when they’re at their worst.”

Felix snorted. “Last time was _intolerable._ I wanted to cut them down.”

“I’m aware. You would have caused a political incident.” She shook her head, a small smile hidden behind her fingers. “But I think most nobles would rather fall on their blades than visit Gautier in the best of seasons. Which would give me ample time to train in peace and, perhaps, catch up on the additions I saw to the Gautier library. I noticed there were some new tomes you didn’t have before.”

Sylvain sighed, feeling far more tired than he had in weeks. “I get what you’re doing. And, believe me, I appreciate it. But you can’t just . . . just uproot your lives because you want me to feel better.”

Felix rolled his eyes. “You didn’t hear a word we said, did you?”

Sylvain scowled. “I heard you making excuses.”

Both froze, and Sylvain cursed himself again for not biting his tongue. He was the insincere one, the one with a permanently ridiculous smile on his face. He wasn’t supposed to be . . . this.

“Look,” he muttered, uncharacteristically uncertain, “I’m sorry. I just . . . I can’t accept doing that to you. You guys really don’t need to be in Gautier. In fact, I’d prefer if you weren’t.”

Ingrid’s temper snapped; her cheeks flushed, hands slamming firmly into his bed. Her eyes practically glimmered with her fury, lips curled into a magnificent scowl.

“Enough of this, Sylvain.” She said, voice nearly a growl. “We aren’t offering because we feel _obligated_ to. We’re doing it because,” she inhaled slowly, glancing away, “I thought you were happier without us lecturing you all the time. I didn’t think . . . didn’t think you’d be unhappy here.”

Sylvain opened his mouth, only to snap it shut at another of her sharp glares.

“I know it doesn’t fix everything.” She continued. “I don’t know if we ever could. But if I can’t expect to see you in Fhirdiad, then I at least can see you here. Because I _want_ to. Even if I will likely have to spend most of it scolding you.”

“I’d like to see how much you’ve improved with a lance.” Felix mused, arms still crossed. “You must be better, now that you’re not slacking all the time.”

“I dunno.” Sylvain sighed, motioning to his sheets. “I’m not sure I’ll be back in shape before winter.”

“You will.” Felix said, a genuine smile on his lips. “I’ll make sure of it.”

~☀~

Sylvain woke to the creak of his door and the small click of the latch as it shut.

For the first time in ages, he hadn’t dreamt. He hadn’t fallen into the constant spiral of memories that tugged at him, that reminded him just how foolish he’d been. Instead, he had slept soundly, lulled by the prospects of a positive future. For every season of an empty manor, he’d have one full of days reminiscent of his youth—with smiles and laughter and probably lots of scolding.

Feet shuffled across his floor, and he let himself open his eyes.

The room was still dark, the moon hardly lighting the most prominent features. He could make out his nightstand and the chair across from him, but not the far end of his room. But he could still see the outline of a figure approaching from the doorway, their every step agonizingly slow as if they were afraid of waking him.

He frowned, just a little annoyed that he couldn’t make out their face. They were big, certainly, but that didn’t really narrow the possibilities. There was Dedue and one of his healers who were just as large, then a handful of his knights. Any one of them could be checking on Sylvain’s state, probably spurred on to just make sure he was still in bed. It was insulting that they thought him stupid enough to aggravate his injuries twice.

Whatever. They could do what they wanted. He could just go back to sleep. With a small exhale, he closed his eyes once more, relaxing back into his pillows.

The steps stopped by his bed, just in front of the chair. They’d see if he was breathing, be satisfied, and go away. He just had to keep his breaths slow and level.

But they didn’t leave. He counted a handful of minutes, and still they stood there.

It couldn’t be a medic, knight, or servant then. They would have handled their business and moved on. And it wasn’t an assassin. An assassin would cut his throat and be done with it. He dreaded that it might be his own imagination toying with him.

A gentle touch broke him from his thoughts; an idle hand brushed up his good arm and along his collarbone, pausing just before it met the bandages on the other side.

There was a shaky exhale; it wasn’t much, but Sylvain would know it anywhere.

He opened his eyes to look up at his king, the smile on his lips so intuitive that he couldn’t stop it if he wanted to.

Close like this, he could see the way the moonlight caressed Dimitri’s face, enveloping him in an almost ethereal glow. But he looked human—so, so human. His clothes were hardly befitting of a king and could barely be qualified as nightclothes. His hair was likewise a mess, doubtless a result of endless tossing and turning on nights when his dreams still taunted him. And it was clear that they did; even in limited light, Sylvain could make out the bag under his eye, the way he looked like he hadn’t slept in ages.

It made him worryingly careless; he clearly hadn’t even noticed that Sylvain was awake.

“So His Majesty came to see me, too.” Sylvain whispered, voice fond. “I feel spoiled.”

The flush on Dimitri’s face was almost brighter than the moonlight, deepening the more he fell over his own words. Finally, something coherent came out. “I apologize. I had no intention of waking you. I—”

“Don’t worry so much.” Sylvain chuckled, shifting so he could sit up. He’d gotten good at it now, managing without so much as grunting. He was a little surprised to see Dimitri already adjusting his pillows so he could sit more comfortably. “You came all the way here for a little scratch. I’d say we’re even.”

Dimitri’s hands froze before rapidly pulling away. Sylvain didn’t miss the way his eye slid over the bandages that peeked beneath his open collar. No doubt he’d been told about the numerous other ones, too. “I’d heard you almost died.”

Sylvain chuckled, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. “I’m sure whatever you heard was exaggerated wildly out of proportion. My council likes to be dramatic.”

That wasn’t entirely a lie. For the first week or so of Sylvain’s lucidity, they had badgered him endlessly about heirs, panicked that the Gautier line would evaporate. Their attempts had been tempered for now, but he only imagined it would worsen the longer he remained incapacitated.

But he imagined Dimitri heard the same story constantly, too. “I’m just being lazy. Enjoying the quiet while it lasts.”

Dimitri caught his hand, placing it rather firmly back on the bed. The scowl on his face was very nearly intimidating. “Do not diminish this.”

“There’s no reason to worry so much, Your Majesty. I told you—”

“I know you collapsed simply leaving your room.”

Sylvain winced, mouth dry. He looked down at his sheets, sheepish. “They told you about that, huh?”

Dimitri scoffed. “I was the one who brought you back.”

“Oh.” Heat immediately rose to Sylvain’s cheeks, unable to will the image from his mind. Too easily, he could imagine himself in Dimitri’s arms, carried like a damsel with his face pressed against that armor. It was obvious, if he thought about it. No one else could hold him as effortlessly. He dreaded what he might have said in his delusional haze. “Right. Thanks.”

He wanted to say more, but he couldn’t. How much had he craved to just see Dimitri again, and—when he was here—Sylvain couldn’t even bring himself to look up from his sheets? It was pathetic.

And yet he didn’t even have the gall to feel guilty about it. He should have been ashamed of himself; had he behaved, he certainly would have recovered faster, and thus could have told the others not to worry. But he didn’t regret Ingrid and Felix coming here, nor did he particularly feel bad about Dimitri’s visit. But he _should_ have. Dimitri was a king with a kingdom to run, no longer a prince who could just gallivant through the dangers of snow, bandits, and likely assassins as he crossed territories.

What kind of vassal was he, that he was _happy_ to waste his king’s time?

“I understand,” Dimitri said, voice soft and uncertain, “if you are upset with me.”

Sylvain looked up, an eyebrow raised. “Why would I be mad at you?”

Dimitri looked away, expression glum. “I suggested this treaty and offered you no support. Had I been more proactive—”

“You’re overthinking it.” Sylvain smiled fondly, running his fingers through his hair. “I would have done this anyway, your suggestion or not. And, frankly, I’d rather your knights be home protecting you than deployed here where I’d have to train them. They’d all get themselves killed thinking Srengi warriors fight like bandits.”

“Oh. I see.” Dimitri sighed, a small chuckle riding on his exhale. “I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised.”

“Oh?”

“It’s . . . very like you.”

“Yeah, you know me.” Sylvain slumped against his pillows, shrugging. “I like courting the impossible.”

After all, it had been impossible for him to want to bring peace between two lands that had been in war for longer than he had been alive. It had been impossible for him to want to leave Gautier, to turn away from the expectations he’d been born to. And, worst of all, it was impossible for him to want Dimitri all to himself.

“Sylvain,” Dimitri’s hand rested on his own, the hold astoundingly gentle, “you are the one person I fully trust capable of achieving the impossible.”

If Sylvain wasn’t already luminescent with his blush, he certainly was _now_. He turned his head, if only to spare himself some dignity. “T-thanks . . .”

He didn’t have to look to know Dimitri was smiling. He always had that particular smile when he was being overly sincere, almost blinding in its honesty. Sylvain used to adore it. Now it just reminded him how much it would hurt when he had to clamp down on those emotions again once Dimitri left.

“I’m sorry.” He said, throat tight.

“Whatever for?”

“I don’t think,” Sylvain exhaled slowly, “I’ll be in Fhirdiad for a very long time.”

“I understand.” Dimitri said, voice still soft and too sincere. “I could not expect you to. Between your recovery and your duties here, I imagine Fhirdiad would be an unnecessary distraction.”

Sylvain’s fingers clenched into the sheets. So he’d forgotten. The one thing that had kept Sylvain alive out there, face-down in snow, choking on his own blood, and Dimitri had forgotten.

Perhaps it was for the best, though. Comfort could be found in the fact that his avoidance had no negative effect on the other. Dimitri hadn’t been stuck there waiting, the unspoken discussion lingering on his mind. Quite likely, he’d forgotten entirely by the time the sun’s rays hit the castle that morning.

If Dimitri could focus on his own duties, then Sylvain needed to, too. He needed to forget this, to stop pretending that it was okay to let just a glimmer of hope light the chasm in his chest.

Dimitri sighed. “If you’d allow it, I’d hoped we might . . . be able to talk here.”

Sylvain glanced over at him, words flat on his tongue. “We are talking.”

“No, I—” Dimitri inhaled sharply, running a hand roughly across his face. It was a shame; Dimitri deserved only tender touches.

Sylvain mentally smacked himself to stay focused. “Hey, it’s just me, Your Majesty. Whatever you have to say, I’ve probably said worse.”

“I . . . suppose that’s quite likely.” Dimitri muttered. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking as uncertain as he’d been as a teen, sitting in Sylvain’s room while Sylvain saved him from a girl. It had been adorable on him back then; it was slightly unnerving now.

But pressuring Dimitri never seemed to be of any help. It only made him shut down entirely, or outright flee. And, considering that Sylvain couldn’t follow, he really didn’t want either.

But that was really hard to manage as minutes passed and Dimitri _still_ didn’t say anything. Instead, he wrung his fingers, looking anywhere but at Sylvain. One or twice, he opened his mouth, but to no avail.

The silence was damning. There were only a handful of situations that would have Dimitri nervous, and only a couple that would render him speechless. Either he was getting married, or he wanted Sylvain to. It was the one thing that had tugged at both of their anxieties for ages, a responsibility that neither could particularly fully accept (for very different reasons).

Perhaps there was some sort of impending arrangement in Fhirdiad. Something to create a bridge between Fodlan and one of the neighboring countries. Those sorts of things usually required a marriage of some sort. And, as Sylvain highly doubted the council would allow Dimitri to marry a foreigner so early into his rule, that meant it would fall to one of his vassals. Felix was out of the question—he’d ruin any potential union just by opening his mouth. Ingrid was certainly out as well, just to respect her place as a knight. That would leave Sylvain, the only one with any rank significant enough to avoid insult, a good relationship with the king, and enough sense to keep his mouth shut where needed.

Of course, his council would have gained word long ago, if that was the case. And they would have badgered him far more endlessly than they had been now, where at least their arguments were generic enough to be ignored.

Maybe it was something else, then. Maybe he wanted to be more personally involved in Sreng. It would make sense, logically. What was an enemy’s word over a king’s? Even if Sylvain’s treaty was solid and his relationship with the warlords was phenomenal, he was still an old enemy. His word would never be taken as seriously as a king’s. And, very likely, Dimitri’s council could never fully trust the womanizer and slacker for something so important.

Sylvain sighed. Maybe it would just be better if Dimitri got startled and ran off.

Sylvain opened his mouth, but wasn’t allowed a chance to speak before Dimitri blurted out: “I love you.”

Sylvain’s head snapped up, eyes wide. He had to mishear that. Perhaps another fever was coming on, and he was delusional. Or it was just another one of the ways his friends were trying to keep his spirits high, wanting to keep him from giving up. He didn’t doubt that Ingrid, at least, had spoken of Sylvain’s complaints.

Whatever answer Dimitri had been looking for, silence wasn’t on the list.

Slowly, Dimitri’s expression fell. When he looked away, his eye shone with the threat of tears. “I was concerned that I’d . . . misread you. Perhaps I have. I just . . . don’t think I could forgive myself, if I lost you and never told you.”

Sylvain merely laughed, else he would cry. He held his face in his hands. “If this is a joke—or some twisted sort of pity—it’s not funny.”

“ _Sylvain_.” Dimitri’s voice cracked, equal parts desperate and despaired. “I don’t love you like I love Ingrid or Felix or Dedue. Nor how I love any of our friends or the Professor. I love you in a way that I’ve never felt with anyone else.”

Sylvain froze.

But Dimitri did not relent. “I love your smile, and the way you move your fingers when you think, and that crinkle in your nose when you’re actually laughing, and the way I can always count on you to come up with an absurdly clever strategy, and how I know you always have my back and—”

“Your Majesty.” Sylvain gasped, like he couldn’t get enough air in his lungs. “ _Stop,_ please.” If he didn’t, Sylvain was going to combust.

“I apologize.” Dimitri swallowed, his shoulders stiff and his body tense. His voice was hoarse like he’d been yelling for hours. “I had no intention of making you uncomfortable.” His fingers curled into Sylvain’s sheets, lips pressed tight. “I know things weren’t . . . ideal between us. And I understand that you don’t feel the same way. Even if you did fancy men . . . after the way I treated you, I . . . I do not imagine I could ever make up for that.”

Sylvain pulled his hands from his face, looking at his king. There was no way to mistake his sincerity; Dimitri looked as miserable as Sylvain had felt for longer than he could remember.

He reached up with his good arm, curling his fingers into Dimitri’s collar. He pulled at him, which was useless and made his side ache. But that was fine; the pain meant that this was real. He wasn’t dreaming, wasn’t imagining this.

“You seriously think I’d reject you?” Sylvain breathed, the smile on his face fragile. “ _Seriously_?”

Dimitri blinked, eye wide and lost. “You . . . aren’t?”

“I’ve been pining for you like a fool. Of _course_ I’m not gonna reject you.” He tugged at Dimitri’s collar again, pleased when the distance between them diminished—even if only fractionally. “I’ve loved you for a _decade_. I doubt I’ll ever stop loving you. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

Dimitri lowered himself to his knees, eye half-lidded and lips parted slightly. “You’ve never said anything.”

“You’re a king!” Sylvain laughed, leaning in as far as his side would allow. It wasn’t close enough. “What was I supposed to say? ‘I love you, Dimitri. Please pretend we have no duties whatsoever and marry me’?”

Dimitri leaned a fraction closer, so close that Sylvain could feel his breath against his cheek. “Please, say that again.” He said, voice so full of affection that Sylvain wasn’t sure he could take it.

“Pretend we have no duties?” Sylvain asked, a wry smile on his lips.

Dimitri kissed his forehead, a small smirk against his skin. “Not that.”

“Marry me?”

A kiss on his nose. “Not quite.”

Sylvain smiled, barely concealing his amusement. Oh, he wanted to pull him close, kiss him senseless. But that would ruin the game. “I love you?”

Dimitri kissed his cheek. “So close, _Sylvain_.”

“Ah.” Sylvain tilted his head, his lips just ghosting against Dimitri’s. “I love you, Dimitri.” He cooed, years of adoration laden in his voice. “I’ve never fancied anyone as much as you, _Dimitri_.”

Dimitri closed the gap between them, kiss firm but certainly not as forceful as Sylvain had always imagined. No, it was entirely chaste and sweet and so utterly Dimitri that it had Sylvain’s heart thudding in his chest like a teen again.

Sylvain grinned. “You’re lucky I’m confined to bed.” He teased, kissing at the corner of Dimitri’s mouth. “Otherwise, I’d—”

Dimitri pulled back, clearing his throat. He couldn’t hide how flushed his cheeks were, certainly no longer as ignorant as he’d been as a teen. “P-perhaps when you are well.”

Sylvain pulled Dimitri down for another kiss. For the first time since his confinement, he couldn’t wait to get better.

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**Author's Note:**

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